


New Reflections

by Rarilee6



Series: New Reflections universe [1]
Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe- Age Changes, Alternate Universe- Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Art, Burnsmithers - Freeform, Character Development, Confessions, Confrontations, Digital Art, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Feelings, Fever, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Implied Sexual Content, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Magic, Mirrors, Photographs, Press and Tabloids, Spirits, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 07:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 73,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25347187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rarilee6/pseuds/Rarilee6
Summary: One day, Mr Burns wonders what it would be like if he and Smithers were closer in age; if he, Burns, were younger. The next morning is as usual until Waylon discovers Burns has undergone a drastic change overnight- one that affects them both, and presents them with new challenges and the chance to truly change themselves.
Relationships: Charles Montgomery Burns/Waylon Smithers
Series: New Reflections universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2059518
Comments: 74
Kudos: 93





	1. Part One: If I could

**Author's Note:**

> Hi again! So I've been working on this thing for over a year and I finally finished it, so now I want to share it here. I really enjoyed writing it, I hope you like it as well. It is complete so I will post it all in due time.

Waylon had never, and could never have, expected for things to go the way they did. All he had wanted to do was pass time in its usual matter: serve his employer to his every need. Whatever Mr Burns wanted; Waylon would get it.  
He rarely felt discontent as he spent each day in the company of Mr Burns, who, despite his demeanour, enthralled Waylon simply by existing.  
Rain fell that morning; it alerted Waylon as soon as he woke in his dark apartment to the sound of thunder. The rain stayed as he exited the building to go to his car and to Burns’ home and stayed still. 

“Sir, it’s time to wake up,” he said softly, not wanting to startle Burns.  
“Wha- Oh, Smithers.”  
“Good morning.”  
Burns listened to the rain for a moment. “Drat, it’s raining.”  
“It’s alright, sir.”  
“I will be cold… Smithers, do fetch my coat when we leave…” He sighed.  
“Of course, sir.”  
Burns didn’t say anything more on the topic; instead, Waylon caught him with a faraway look in his eyes. He wondered what he was thinking about. But they couldn’t be late for work.  
“Sir…”  
“Smithers! Don’t just stand there, you imbecile!” Burns snapped suddenly, breaking out of his apparent trance.  
“Yes, sir.” He went onto his next task.

The rain trudged on as Waylon drove himself and Burns to the power plant. He turned the windshield wipers on, which somehow added to the gloomy atmosphere. Neither of them spoke. Waylon wondered if Burns were angry with him. He couldn’t figure out why that would be, though. Burns hadn’t seemed more irritated than usual with him, just preoccupied; with what, Waylon didn’t know.  
Around lunchtime, Waylon went to Burns’ office, nearby his own, to check on him and give him lunch. “Sir, how’s the coffee?”  
Burns looked up from his papers. “Fine, Smithers.”  
“It’s… time for lunch, sir,” Waylon reminded.  
Burns looked at the clock. “So it is. What have you for me today?”  
“I ordered you a sandwich and soup from that place you said you liked when we went there.”  
Burns stared. “Well? Where is it?”  
“Oh, right here, sir.” Waylon set the items on Burns’ desk and opened them. Burns surveyed the contents and sniffed, then tasted the soup with a spoon after blowing on it slightly. “If you don’t like it, I’ll get something else.”  
Burns set the spoon down. “That won’t be necessary. This is sufficient.”  
Waylon nodded. 

After assisting Burns with his lunch, Waylon returned to his office to fill out a form authorising the use of a new steam generator, one of the forms Burns had given to him to sign off on.  
“Smithers!” 

At his name, Waylon rose and entered Burns’ office again, where the older man surveyed his wall of television screens, his eyes narrowed, watching the incompetent lackeys stumble around.  
“Smithers, who is that wisenheimer?” he demanded now, pointing at one screen in particular. Waylon leant forward.  
“That’s Homer Simpson, sir. One of your useless flesh-bags from sector 7-G.”  
“Simpson, eh? Blast it, he’s the imbecile who nearly blew up the plant!”  
“That’s right, sir.”  
Burns studied the screens a bit longer. “Why do I allow these underlings to thrive?” he muttered, “they should all be fired!”  
“But sir, then there won’t be anyone to run the plant.”  
“Horsefeathers. Well, get Simpson up here. I don’t know how he’s not fired yet.”  
“Actually, sir, there have been a few times-”  
“Just get him, don’t waste my time.”  
“Yes, sir.” Waylon used the PA system to send for Simpson. 

The large man stumbled into Burns’ spacious office unceremoniously. Burns sat at his desk, fingers steepled in a trademark fashion. Waylon stood beside him.  
“Simpson! Come here,” Burns ordered.  
“Mr Burns! What did I do?” He looked frantic.  
Burns rolled his eyes. “You are quite possibly the most incompetent worker at this plant. I don’t know why you’re still here.”  
“Are you firing me?”

“Yes, you fool. You’re severely under-qualified.” Burns skimmed through Simpson’s file. Then he turned his attention back to the nervous man. “Will you come quietly and leave, or must I release the hounds?”  
“Ah! No, sir, Mr Burns, I’ll go.”  
“Yes, yes. Out of my sight. I never want to see you again.”

Simpson scampered out. Waylon opened his mouth to complement his boss on how he handled the situation, but Burns spoke first.  
“Smithers,” he said, “don’t get old.”  
Waylon looked at him. “Er… sir?” He furrowed his brow. Burns’ comment caught him off guard.  
“It’s not all glamourous,” Burns continued, to a confused Waylon, “There are times I wish I could return to my youth. But it will never come to pass, I am afraid.” He got the odd faraway look in his eyes again as he trailed off.  
“Sir, I promise I won’t, er, ‘get old’.”  
“I’ll be dead before that happens, anyhow,” Burns said.  
Waylon dropped to his knees. “No, sir, don’t say that! You’re a fine specimen!”  
Burns raised an eyebrow. “How wishful you sound, Smithers.”  
“It’s true!” Waylon pleaded, “I…” I love you, sir. He would say that, or would like to, but he didn’t feel it was the right moment to. He wondered if there would be a ‘right’ moment.  
“You what?” Burns looked at him.  
“Nothing, sir. You’re not dying anytime soon.”  
“Well, yes… do get up, Smithers, it’s unbecoming to sit on the floor like that.”  
Waylon rose to his feet. “Sorry, sir.”  
Burns sat back in his chair. “Anyhow… I am old, Smithers…” He turned his head to regard his assistant. “My days of prime are long past.”  
“Not to me, sir.”  
“Oh, stop it with your incessant flattery! I want the truth. You are useless sometimes.”  
“But it’s true…”

Burns sighed. “Smithers, if you could go back in time, would you?”  
“You’re… being awfully philosophical today, sir.”  
“I asked you a question, man! Don’t give me namby-pamby responses, I told you, I want the truth. Now answer it.”  
Waylon swallowed. “Well… I guess it depends on what time I could go back to. What… what about you, sir?”  
“It should be obvious, Smithers, I would return to when I was young. When I…” He looked so positively mournful that Waylon wanted to comfort him, but he didn’t think Burns would want to be touched.  
“What if I were younger?”  
Waylon blinked. “What?” He had no idea how to answer that.  
“You heard me, Smithers. What if we were closer in age, you and I- if I were younger.”  
“Well, sir, I probably wouldn’t do so many things for you,” Waylon said, “er… you could do more things yourself… I… I’m not sure. Would I…”  
“What?”  
“Would I still be your assistant?”  
Burns tapped his finger on his chin. “I don’t see why ever not; I would still need an assistant. Running the plant is not a one-man job, Smithers.”  
“But… but it wouldn’t be like now,” Waylon said quietly.  
“Well, of course it wouldn’t be exactly like now. What would you expect?”  
The questions burned on his tongue. But would we still be friends? Would you still consider me so close?  
“Would you… still want me to come to your house like I do? Would we still, er, do things on the weekends?” He blushed as he said this, thinking of a very different connotation, then specified, “Dinners and things, our bike rides, playing games?”  
“I would think we would still enjoy our excursions, though perhaps something different would be in order in terms of activity,” Burns answered, “but this is all very hypothetical.”  
“… Yes.”  
They didn’t speak for a few minutes, until Waylon excused himself to finish some work back in his own office, though he couldn’t take his mind off Burns’ hypothetical query. It was a fascinating concept; what if…  
He loved Monty, but would his feelings change if he were much younger? Waylon didn’t think so. He’d been falling in love all his life. Would his feelings become, he wondered, stronger? Though he didn’t know how that would happen, being so thoroughly enamoured already. 

The workday came to an end and it was time to return to Burns’ manor. Waylon was preoccupied as he drove, not noticing the rain had slowed. He only noticed when they arrived at the house and he went to help Mr Burns out and felt only slow drops grazing the umbrella. He took the older man’s hand, pulled him up, then released him to walk him into the house, staying close to him.  
“I’m going to the library for repose,” Burns announced after they’d made it inside, “you may join me if you wish.”  
Waylon, eager to please, nodded and followed his boss upstairs to the library, a large room with a currently dead fireplace, wingback chairs resting on top of a rug, and books lining the dark walls, along with other various furniture scattered.  
Burns slid into a chair. “Smithers, turn the fire on, will you?” His voice sounded far away. The rain had picked up again and created a dull patter against the window.  
“Yes, sir.”  
After doing that, Waylon sat on the edge of an adjacent chair and studied Burns, whose profile was illuminated in the firelight. He didn’t say anything, only stared ahead, his only movement from his eyes and slight rise and fall of his chest.  
“Are you alright?” Waylon asked quietly. His voice was almost obscured by the rain and the crackling of the fire.

“I feel fine,” Burns said.  
“Mm.”  
“Smithers?”  
“Yes, sir?”  
“Do you think me weak?”  
“What- sir?” Waylon turned to face Burns. “What made you ask that?”  
“You do so many things for me,” he continued, “that I cannot.”  
Waylon shifted. “Well… sir, I’m your assistant. I’m supposed to do things for you.”  
“That is not the point! I cannot appear weak to anyone. My name is at stake. My name and title, and… oh, if only I could go back.”  
He’s still thinking about earlier. “Is… is there anything I can do, to help you?”  
“No! No, Waylon. I have been too lenient lately. The workers will take advantage of me. And I can’t…”  
“What, sir?”  
“I cannot be… I can’t be weak.” 

“But…” Waylon faltered, “sir, you aren’t. Monty, you’re not weak. You’re ruthless and intelligent. You don’t let people take advantage of you. You just fired Simpson today, remember?”  
“I suppose.” Burns said then, “I do still wonder… I must show you something. Now where…” He rose from the chair and, clearly preoccupied, left the room. Waylon watched him, wanting to know where Burns was going and what he wanted to show Waylon. They had been having a peculiar conversation. Burns feared being weak, which wasn’t something they discussed often. Waylon tried to think of how he could possibly convince Burns that he was not.  
He was almost startled when Burns walked back into the room, holding a wooden picture frame, which Waylon could see by the light of the fire. Burns turned on the lamp on the table between them and sat back down.  
“Is that what you wanted to show me?”  
“Yes. It’s both the original and a reproduction, underneath the former.” Burns handed it to him. Waylon looked down and turned the frame over to see a monochromatic photograph. It depicted a slender man with long hair, wearing an open coat over dark trousers, who looked familiar. Waylon realised with a start that this was a very young Burns, perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties. Though the photograph was rather old, it was clear and free of spots; young Burns stared up at him, unfiltered. Waylon almost expected him to blink or otherwise move.  
Burns leaned over and they both looked at it. “…if I could go back, if I could return to my virile state… I could do more… I wouldn’t need assistance with every little thing… I wouldn’t be weak.” He sighed, irritated. “I can’t do that.”  
“I… I’m sorry, sir.” Waylon looked at the picture again. Burns had been striking. He still was. He always had been. Waylon opened his mouth to say this, but didn’t know if it would have any effect, if Burns would care.  
“Ugh. That’s all you can say, I suppose,” Burns muttered, “this is one thing I don’t think I could buy. Unless you know of any ground-breaking time travel technology?”  
“…No.”  
Burns laughed; it sounded empty and contrived. He took the photographs back and stared at it for some seconds. Then with sudden force he lobbed the frame at the fire. Waylon watched him carefully, not having expected the turn of events. He followed Burns’ gaze to the flames slowly consuming the silver of the frame and soon after would begin to tear away at its contents. He thought he could hear a whisper, a long sigh, and decided it was Burns beside him, because it had to be. A strange warm breeze, though the window was closed… Waylon shivered. Burns didn’t seem to notice.  
Burns turned his head to Waylon again, who tore his eyes from the destruction in front of them.  
“I cannot waste time with a relic of the past like that,” Burns said, “it is pointless.”  
“I wish there were something I could do.”  
“This time, you cannot do anything useful.” Burns yawned. “It is eight o’clock. What shall we have for dinner, then? There is somewhere you can be useful.”  
“Sir, do you mean ‘we’ as in you or…”  
“No, Smithers, you dolt! If I had meant myself only, I would have said so. Now what shall we have?” 

Before he left the room after Burns, Waylon turned the fire off and saw the remains of the charred frame. He only sighed and then turned to leave. If he had looked closer, picked up the frame, he would have seen the photographs, entirely intact. 

After a dinner of salmon, vegetables, and wild rice, Burns and Waylon played chess until Burns decided he’d had enough at around 22h. He set down his king. Burns was a formidable opponent in chess, though Waylon was competent himself. Burns had won this game, though.  
“Are you ready for bed, sir?”  
“What… yes.” Burns seemed too tired to argue. He let Waylon lead him to his bedroom and assist him dress in his pyjamas consisting of a nightgown, then brush his teeth. 

“Perhaps, Smithers,” he said drowsily as he closed his eyes after Waylon had tucked him in with Bobo, “perhaps, in my dreams, I can live again…”  
And with that cryptic phrase, Burns fell asleep. Waylon gazed at him for a while before quietly leaving the room.  
And outside, the stars winked in and out of existence, beginning and ending again.


	2. Part Two: Brave New World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two is now up! Things get very interesting for Burns and Waylon, especially so for the former. Waylon questions himself.

Waylon woke to a silent morning. The rain had not repeated itself.  
Still somewhat drowsy, he took his glasses off the nightstand and went about mechanically his normal morning routine: shower, brush, dress, eat, etc. in time enough to arrive at Burns’ manor around half-six. The power plant opened at eight. Looking in the mirror in the bathroom, he dropped his razor as a headache clouded his thoughts. Waylon closed his eyes until the pain subsided. He had headaches in the morning occasionally, so he thought little of it.  
Waylon hummed slightly as he drove through the embellished, monogrammed gates of the manor and parked his car. Approaching the front door, he took out his key to open it. He stopped for a moment as his headache returned full force, but only for some seconds.

The floors creaked as he walked inside the mostly dark manor, slipping the key into his pocket. It all felt quite normal.  
As he walked towards the stairs, he thought ahead to the day, wondering if Burns would still be longing for his past so. He briefly thought of the photograph and smiled to himself. He glanced in the mirror on the wall on his way, making sure he was presentable.  
His headache returned now, lingering as he climbed the stairs. He wasn’t sure why; he thought the Advil had worked. By the time he reached Burns’ door, he had to stop and lean against the wall, close his eyes, wishing he had taken the medicine with him. He could ask Burns for some, he supposed, but that would come later.  
The door, as the floors had, creaked, and so Waylon opened it more quickly to avoid drawing the noise out. His headache dissipated. He wondered why he had had one again.

He approached the curtains past the bed, so he could open them before waking Burns, and he stopped, the curtain in his hand. He closed his eyes, trying to gather himself. He couldn’t have seen what he thought he had.

Waylon turned and stared at the bed, pushing the curtain aside. In the semi-darkness, forms blurred and softened edges, but it did not distort the figure, still…  
He shook his head and looked away. The darkness must have been playing tricks on his eyes. He went to the curtains, not realising his hand was shaking, and pulled back the drapes, filtering sunlight into the room. Then he turned back to the bed. He blinked. The figure hadn’t changed, though a mass of brown hair obscured their face. Waylon frowned and approached the bed, but he wouldn’t have to wonder any longer, because the person shifted, turned towards him in sleep, and Waylon stared again, not able to comprehend what he was seeing. The man, around his own age, perhaps younger, was slender, shorter than he, and had long brown hair. Something else about his appearance was very familiar- where had he- the photograph. The photograph they had looked at just the night before. This man was its spitting image.  
“But- this should be impossible… it can’t be him…” But then who else would it be but Burns? The photograph was still intact in his memory, reflected in his vision.  
But now he had to wake Burns. Still incredulous, Waylon cleared his throat. “Sir, it’s… morning.”  
Burns stirred and opened his eyes a bit, squinting at Waylon. “It’s too bright,” he said.  
“Sorry, sir.” He yanked the drapes somewhat closed. It was Burns? It was actually-  
“I feel odd, Smithers,” Burns was saying.  
“Well, sir, er-” But he stopped as Burns turned his head, stopped, and gazed at his hair. Tiredness fell away and turned to shock. “Why, I haven’t seen anything like this in nearly forty-odd-” he muttered. With a strength that hadn’t been present last night, Burns hoisted himself up in the bed and threw off the covers. He looked down at himself, his expression one Waylon had rarely seen: one of awe.  
“Smithers, look at me, it is as if I am young!” Burns slipped from the bed and hastened to his adjoining bathroom, where he was examining himself in the mirror, still in his nightclothes.

His manner was almost giddy. “I do suppose my wish has been granted, eh?” He glanced across the room before stealing another look in the mirror and walking back to the bed, on which he sat facing Waylon.  
“Your… your wish?”  
“Yes! Don’t you recall our conversation last night?”  
“I… of course, but I didn’t think… I didn’t think anything would happen.” He wanted to bring up the photograph. “That picture you threw in the fire- you look just like that-”  
“Perhaps. Though I don’t believe my throwing it in the fire was the sole reason this happened, if there is any discernible reason at all,” Burns said.  
“If there is any reason.” He couldn’t think of any logic that would support Burns’ overnight rejuvenation. He didn’t, however, want to invite the farcical possibility of magic. Not yet. “What should we do now?”  
“Oh, there are so many things…” Burns seemed to be thinking about himself, still giddy from his discovery.  
“Should- do you still want to go to the plant today?” It seemed trivial to bring up, but he felt it was something necessary.  
“Yes, Smithers, I must see how the workers react.” In fact, that was something Waylon was anxious about: the reactions of everyone else. The employees of the power plant would certainly spread the word and then everyone would know of Burns’ appearance. It could have unintended consequences, especially for Burns. But he seemed set on going.

Burns looked down at himself. “Bah, I must dress. Smithers, I want to wear something different today.”  
“Will… will you want any assistance, with anything, sir?” Waylon coughed.  
“Oh…” Burns twisted his lip. “As I said yesterday, I do still need an assistant. But I must tell you, your tasks will change. I want to do certain things myself that I’ve not been able to in years. I will dress myself, obviously, oh… I want to try one of those showers. You may still cook for me, and I suppose you can drive us to the plant today, but I would like to take up the wheel more often.”  
Waylon nodded. “Yes, sir. Are you sure you’d rather a shower than a bath?”  
“Yes, I am sure, quite…”  
“And then to the plant?”  
“Yes.”  
“So how do you think the employees will react?”  
“Hm? Oh…” Burns giggled again. “We’ll have to see, eh, Smithers?”  
Waylon sighed. “Yes, sir.”

Later, Waylon waited for Burns while he got dressed. The closet doors opened some minutes later.  
“What do you think of this?” Burns’ usual dress shirt supported a black vest and trousers.  
Waylon swallowed. “You look… amazing, sir.” It was surreal, knowing this was the same Burns he had spoken to the day before. And with his appearance had come a different, and energetic, mood, one fuelled by pure euphoria and adrenaline.

“Of course, you would say that, Smithers. I don’t know why I ask your opinion. Oh! Smithers, we will go out after work today.”  
“We… we will?”  
“Yes, the ladies will be unable to resist me. Don’t you think so?”

Waylon turned. That’s what I’m afraid of. I don’t want to lose you. I can’t.  
He wanted to scream. He had been in emotional agony and frustration for so long, not having told Burns the extent of how he felt. Perhaps that was a bit dramatic, but- “I… yes, of course.”  
“Oh, bother.” Burns eyed himself in a mirror. For a second, he grimaced, but Waylon could have imagined it. “Mm… yes, no-one will be able to resist Montgomery Burns now.”  
“How could they?” Waylon muttered.  
“What is that supposed to mean?” Burns raised an eyebrow at him.  
“What… oh, nothing.” He hadn’t counted on Burns’ improved hearing. “Nothing, sir.”

Behind him in the car, Burns reclined on the seats, his fingers tapping on the vinyl. He slid the window down and let the wind run through his hair.  
“So… how are you, sir?” Waylon asked him through the mirror.  
“Mm? Oh, I’m fine…” Burns laughed. “I do wonder how I will be received by the masses…”  
“As do I, sir.”  
“No-one will try to take advantage of me now,” Burns continued, his voice quieter. Waylon didn’t respond. “I am not weak.”

At the plant security gate, the guard looked them over without batting an eye. “Good morning, Mr Smithers… Mr Burns.”  
Waylon stiffened, and behind him Burns did as well, but Waylon just smiled and drove past.  
“I did not expect that,” Burns said as Waylon parked.  
“Neither did I, sir. I wonder how the others will react, if the guard’s reaction is anything to go by. It was uneventful.”  
“Yes…” Burns thought a moment, then slid gracefully out of the car after Waylon opened the door. “Let’s go, Smithers.”

The workers arrived at eight-thirty. Burns would watch them march in through his surveillance system, scrutinising any steps out of line, as he was doing now, seated in his wingback chair, fingers steepled. Waylon stood by him. Burns’ profile was animated as his eyes darted back and forth. He’s beautiful.  
When Burns was satisfied, he leapt from the chair and kicked it back towards his desk. “Ah!” he exclaimed, pulling Waylon’s arm, “Smithers, I feel alive!”

Waylon suddenly found himself inches from Burns’ face. He couldn’t breathe. Burns’ eyes, blue, wide, they stared at one another-  
Then Burns blinked, pulled back, and time started again. Waylon exhaled out of necessity and disappointment.  
Burns coughed. “Well. Anyhow, Smithers, I suppose there are things you need to do.”  
“I… yes, sir.”

Waylon fled the office and went to his own, where he sat at his computer and closed his eyes, taking off his glasses. What if we were closer in age, you and I- if I were younger, Burns had said the night before. How could this have happened? He suspected the photograph was implicated somehow, but he couldn’t explain anything.  
And there he was, falling for Burns all over again. He was somehow deeper in love than he had been- perhaps it was the very real fear of rejection that fuelled it, since Burns was now eligible to hook up with any woman he liked, apparently- his good looks would be seen by more than only Waylon this time. Before, Waylon had found him immensely appealing and attractive, and no-one else knew Burns like he, but now, Burns could put on airs and appeal to a versatile crowd, and Waylon would be left behind as his friend went on to more lavish pursuits.

You’re getting ahead of yourself, he scolded, it’s only been the morning.  
Still, he fretted. And his worries stayed in his mind throughout the workday, even as he tried to busy himself with menial tasks.  
Waylon headed to the employee break room/cafetorium to check on the employees. He finished the rounds and circled back around to the hall, then he slowed. A conversation around the corner, leading back into said hall, mentioning Burns.  
“… I can’t believe he’s not married. Ah… but no-one would want to marry him for anything except his money.”  
“Well, yeah… what would you expect?”  
“I think he rejects all the women who want to marry him because they only want his money, but it could be something else… maybe he's not into women, though I assumed he was straight.”  
The clipboard nearly dropped from his hands.

“Uh… I don’t know, I mean, his assistant is, but I don’t know about him. I don’t think so.”  
“Speaking of his assistant… he’s been after Burns for ages…?” Did everyone know that?  
“I don’t think anything’s going to happen between them. Even if Burns is gay or bi or something, I don’t think he’d ever come out about it. He’s not like that.”  
“I guess so. Well… if anyone gets with him, I want it to be the assistant. What’s his name?”  
“Smithers, or something.”  
“Yes, that’s it… he’s pretty cool, from what I’ve seen.”

Shaking his head, Waylon continued on his way and towards his office. Ridiculous, he thought, as if Monty and I would actually… as if he would ever want to…  
He sighed. I hope they’re not spreading rumours about Monty, for his sake. And does this mean that they think he’s always been this young?  
“Smithers!”  
Speak of the devil. Burns’ office door was ajar, and so Waylon went inside.  
“Yes, sir?”  
“I’ve discovered something odd,” Burns said, “come look at this.”  
Waylon obliged and came over. Burns had in front of him a photograph of them, taken relatively recently, when Burns wanted to go to a sanatorium in Switzerland.  
“Oh my god…” Waylon blinked. “It changed, too…” For the photograph now featured the ‘new’ Burns, as if he’d never been any older.  
“It seems all the photographs I’ve looked at have underwent the same treatment,” Burns continued, “it was… startling.” He put the picture down and looked at Waylon, pursing his lips. He seemed uncharacteristically off-put. “Of course, I… don’t mind, it’s just odd.” He shifted in his chair. “If it means I can stay this way, I…” He shook his head. “I never want to go back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	3. Part Three, Section 1: Has anything changed?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burns and Waylon have opposing views on an addition to Burns' life that Waylon despises. Waylon becomes concerned for his friend's well-being when he notices something is off...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Three is going to be split into two parts since it is longer. I hope you like it.

Apparently, the Burns of the past had been entirely erased from everyone’s minds (excluding those of Burns himself and Waylon). To the general populace of Springfield, Burns had always been the young billionaire who ran the nuclear plant, as Waylon had discovered that day by gauging employees’ non-existent reactions when Burns was present. 

Waylon had to wonder what force in the universe had worked to grant Burns his wish of youth and assimilate the concept into everyone else’s minds literally overnight. He had never believed in ‘magic’ or anything, hadn’t reason to, but something out of the ordinary had happened here.   
But what could explain it? Simply an act of wish-magic, like in fairy tales? Waylon rolled his eyes. It sounded ridiculous. But then, if someone had said Burns would suddenly turn sixty or seventy years younger overnight, he’d have had the same reaction of incredulity. And he didn’t know what to think yet about the involvement of last night’s photograph.  
A knock on his office door startled him. Waylon tried to compose himself. He was still at work. The door opened and a woman entered, looking about the room until her eyes landed on Waylon.  
“Can I help you?”   
The woman nodded, her blond curls shaking. “Yes, hello, I was looking for Mr Burns’ office? I’m Eloise Fleming.”  
“Do you have an appointment, Ms Fleming?”  
“Yes.”   
Waylon’s computer screen showed a spreadsheet with appointments booked, which he meticulously kept. “Ah, yes,” he said, “you are here. Mr Burns’ office is down the hall to your left. The double doors, you can’t miss it.”   
“Thanks.”

She left, and Waylon didn’t think much of it. Just another meeting. Maybe Ms Fleming wanted to apply for a position, but wouldn’t she have said so? Maybe not.  
He moved on with his work for the day, until the phone rang not long after. “Smithers, come to my office, post-haste.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
Waylon ended the call and rose from his desk. He slipped into Burns’ office. Eloise Fleming stood in front of Burns’ desk, one manicured hand on her waist. Her fingers tapped the lacquered wooden surface of his desk, her body leaning towards Burns.  
And Burns leaned towards her in return, his head tilted, expression attentive, hands under his chin. Attentive was incorrect, or not strong enough of a word. Burns was staring up at her, a strange, entranced smile on his face; he twisted his fingers. He laughed suddenly at something she said.  
Waylon didn’t move. His body felt leaden, his stomach sank. Of course this would happen. Burns had already found someone to swoon over. He shouldn’t have expected anything else. Who was he kidding? Burns would never want to be with him. He was just the assistant, even in this new world.   
“Smithers! Come here.” Burns waved him over, and then both he and Eloise were looking at Waylon. He forced himself to walk over, hating every second, but trying to withhold his turmoil. It didn’t matter.   
“This is Eloise Fleming,” Burns continued, gesturing with one hand.   
“We actually met some minutes ago, sir.”  
“Splendid!” Burns looked between them. “Eloise is a reporter for the online journal The Springfield Times, here to interview me about the plant and myself.” He glanced at her, eyes lidded, smiling. Waylon wanted to leave. First name basis already? Not-subtle flirting?   
“Should we do the interview here?” Eloise asked.   
“Yes, yes, sit down. Smithers.”  
Waylon brought a chair over for Eloise, striving to keep his countenance neutral. “Do you want me here for the interview, sir?”  
Burns regarded him. “If you wish. Is there anything you’d like to ask him, Eloise?”  
“Well…” Eloise slid a notebook and pen out of her leather satchel. “I wasn’t planning on it.”  
“That’s fine,” Waylon said. He didn’t want to be interviewed. Eloise turned to Burns in the proffered chair, crossing her legs. “So, Mr Burns-”  
“Monty,” Burns corrected.   
Waylon groaned.   
“Okay, let’s treat this like a normal conversation. What would you say has been your experience running the plant, the source of power for the entire town?”  
Burns would not stop staring at her. “Oh… yes, I am in an important position, to say the least. I own the plant, I do not only run it, and I think doing so is rewarding. I take issue with the incompetence of most of the workers, but overall we run a tight ship. Otherwise… you recall the infamous nuclear accidents of past? Hm.”  
“Your plant has had some near accidents in the past as well. If it is due to the incompetence of your workers, why not hire qualified engineers, technicians, to avoid anything else?”  
“They are qualified. I only believe they could perform better. They are lacklustre, yes, but I do not keep them on without reason. They are… enough. I have no need for outside hires.”  
Eloise scribbled on her notepad. “Do you think the same of all of your employees?”  
Burns blinked, flustered. “I was under the impression this interview was about me.” Avoiding the question, Waylon noted.  
“Oh, it is. Let’s move on. Would you say you have a strong work ethic? You seem very devoted to your position.”  
Burns nodded. “I take my occupation seriously.”   
Eloise continued to ask him questions about the plant and a few about himself. By now it had been about forty-five minutes. Eventually Eloise packed away her supplies. Waylon hoped she would leave. But instead, Burns intercepted her, his hand on her shoulder. Waylon felt no reason to remain, and Burns didn’t seem to notice when he left. Through the crack in the door, Burns leaned towards Eloise, gesturing with his hands animatedly. Waylon sighed. Slouching slightly, he returned to his office. At least there he was alone. 

Burns called him back into his office as Waylon reviewed some forms later that day.   
“Yes, sir?”   
Burns’ mood was similar to how it had been after he had discovered his new youth; he grinned, taking Waylon’s hand. Waylon wished it were for another reason.   
“I asked Eloise to go out with me, for a date.”  
“And she accepted?”  
“Of course! Smithers, you saw her, she’s beautiful, and rather intelligent, and I think we had wonderful chemistry already. I think she likes me as well.” He sighed. “We will skip the bar tonight, obviously.”  
“Have you decided where you’re going? To dinner?”  
“Yes, and then who knows what could happen? We may return to the manor.”  
“I’ll make reservations for you at the Gilded Truffle, sir. Would you like me to come along?” Waylon didn’t know if he really wanted to go. But he offered anyway.   
“No, that’s not necessary. I told you some things between us might change here. You don’t need to accompany me everywhere. You can drop me off and pick myself and Eloise up at the restaurant, if she wishes to come home with me. You could wait while we are dining so that there is no delay.”  
“Alright, sir.”   
“Is there a problem? You seem dour.”  
Waylon shook his head. “No. Nothing.” 

That night, as they had planned, Waylon drove Burns to the restaurant for his date with Eloise. Burns wore a formal jacket and trousers. Waylon only wished it were he who Burns were going out with.   
After Burns met Eloise in the restaurant lobby, Waylon trudged back to the car and pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it. The small flame danced in the darkness of the night before he extinguished it, the lighter closing with a snap.   
He didn’t like to smoke, but had no resolve not to, waiting for Burns for an undetermined amount of time while he was on a date with that woman. Waylon leaned against the car, taking drags of the stick.   
Essentially, nothing had changed in his life. Burns had only changed in appearance. And Waylon couldn’t help but hate Eloise Fleming, though she hadn’t really done anything wrong. He always felt like this when Burns found a new woman, jealous and bitter, miserable. He was stuck. But he wanted to be by Burns’ side, and so kept with his position.   
He sat in the car when the cigarette had reached its end, turning the dial on the radio, put his head down, closed his eyes. He only opened them at the sound of a notification on his phone. A message.  
Monty: We have finished. Eloise is going to return with us. Bring the car around.  
He typed back, slowly, On my way. 

Waylon was thankful for the darkness that masked his chagrin on the ride to the manor. Burns was talking to Eloise in the back, ensconced in a conversation that occasionally resulted in laughter. They kissed, the noise turning Waylon’s stomach. He gripped the steering wheel, willing himself to keep control of the car. 

At the manor, Burns took Eloise to his bedroom. Waylon shut himself in a guest room with his belongings on a different floor, suspecting they would be rather busy. He tried to read a book, though the words blurred before his eyes; he couldn’t concentrate. It was near 23h. Eloise was probably spending the night. There was nothing he could do except go to sleep, disappointed, but not surprised in the least by the events of the afternoon and evening. And his head ached yet again.

The next morning, Burns ate breakfast with Eloise, the latter wearing the clothes she had the previous night, wrinkled. Her hair, out of its immaculate curls, hung in loose, messy ringlets. Waylon snorted, knowing what had transpired between them during the night.   
Towards the end of the meal, Burns went to the toilets. Waylon cleaned up the meal some. Footsteps behind him sounded. “Smithers, right?” Eloise’s voice asked.  
Waylon glared at the dish he held before turning around. “Yes.”   
“So you’re Monty’s personal assistant?”  
“Yes,” he ground out. He hated that she was asking him. He hated her use of Burns’ name.   
“I like him,” she said, “I know it’s only been a day or so, but… well. He was staring at me all yesterday.” What was she getting at? Why was she talking to him? “Just- is he always like that?”  
“Like what?”   
“Full of himself.”  
“I suppose.” Waylon didn’t see why that was a bad thing.   
“He’s really old-fashioned sometimes too,” Eloise continued, to Waylon’s irritation, “which is odd for someone his age.”  
If you only knew, Waylon thought.   
Burns returned and Waylon sighed, hoping now Eloise would stop talking to him. She started talking to Burns instead. “Monty, come look at these shoes I found online. Aren’t they nice?”   
“Oh, yes…” Eloise looked at him, smiling. Burns continued, “Er…would you like me to buy them for you?”  
“Oh, Monty, you don’t have to do that.” To Waylon her tone indicated that Burns did in fact have to do that as an obligation. He frowned.   
“Only a few thousand dollars… yes, I will purchase them for you.”  
Eloise kissed his cheek. Waylon’s frown deepened. “Thank you.”   
“Of course.”   
Burns was too dazzled by her to see what Waylon was beginning to. Something was off with their relationship.

Burns had Waylon drive Eloise home. He loathed the idea of spending an entire car ride with her. She was quiet for a few minutes, but then began talking to him. Again.   
“How long have you worked for him?”  
“A long time. Several years.”  
“So you know him well.”  
“I do.” Waylon remembered Eloise’s interview the other day. “Are you going to write an article about Mr Burns and the interview you gave?”  
“Yes. It’ll be in the next issue, probably. Unless my boss changes her mind.” Then Eloise said, “He’s never married, Monty, that is. He’s turned down a lot of women. I suppose I’m lucky that he asked me.” Oh, you are, Waylon stewed, you don’t know anything. Was she thinking about marriage already? Surely not. “I’m seeing him again tomorrow.”   
Waylon didn’t respond.   
“I like him much more than some others I’ve gone out with. I know he’ll treat me right. I just wish he weren’t… that he did some things a bit differently.” Again, where was she going with this? “How much time do you spend with him?”  
What kind of question was that? “I don’t see why that’s important.”  
“I was just wondering. I also wanted to know if you could give us a bit of space in the future.”  
“What are you talking about?” Waylon’s tone did not fully convey his anger, he tried to keep it steady.   
“Just for privacy, if you don’t mind. You were kind of all over at breakfast. I’m sure you understand. I don’t think Monty has told you yet, we talked about it. He agreed with me.”  
“Did he?” 

As soon as she got out of the car, Waylon sped away, anger flowing through his system. He hated her. She clearly thought she was better than him, the lowly assistant. She was nosy and impertinent about his and Burns’ relationship and possibly after Burns’ money, if the shoes purchase that morning had been anything to go by. It was also possible she wanted to marry him, a prospect Waylon despised. 

Back at the manor, Waylon and Burns ate lunch. Waylon wanted to discuss the issues with Eloise, hoping Burns would understand.   
“She might want your money.”  
“What, because I bought those shoes for her? No.”   
“She wanted to know a lot about our relationship and how much time I spend with you.”  
“So what? You are always with me, aren’t you? She just wants to spend time with me herself. Don’t transfix on her, Waylon.”  
Feeling it wasn’t worth continuing, Waylon changed the subject.


	4. Part Three Section Two: Away from this Illusion (plus art!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eloise continues to implant herself between Waylon and Burns, but for how long can this relationship between her and Burns last?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second act of part three is here, as well as a thing I drew of Eloise, of what I think she would look like. I may post things of Waylon and Burns too.

Part Three, Section Two

Over the following few days, Burns spent more time with Eloise, sometimes at the manor, at her house, or out in public.

“Waylon,” he had said, “you do not have to accompany me when she and I are out. She wants more time with me, without you being there- you understand?” Nor did Waylon stay when Burns went to her house. He tried to avoid being alone with Eloise himself. His disdain of her had grown. He didn’t witness her extended interactions with Burns often, beyond dropping Burns off and seeing her greet him. When he did, said interactions seemed off.

He had dropped Burns off at a restaurant for lunch once. “Monty, where were you?” Eloise had demanded, “You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. You didn’t answer your phone. We have a reservation.”  
“I apologise, I was in a conference at the plant…”

“You didn’t tell me you were having a conference today.”  
“Didn’t I? Oh. It’s not important.”  
“I like to know where you are, especially if it affects our plans.”

“Then, I will be sure to inform you when I have another conference,” Burns had said quickly, getting out of the car.

“And you wore your work suit here?” Now she was complaining about what he wore?

“Oh… I don’t think that is…” Burns had looked down at himself. Ever so slightly, his posture sank, his shoulders dropping, though Waylon didn’t think Eloise noticed the change. If she did, she did not consider it.

“I just think you could have changed into something more casual, we’re only going to lunch.”

“… I see.”

“Let’s go inside, we’ve wasted time standing here…”

Another instance, at the manor, had been weird:

“You’re at work so often… you’re the owner, do you have to be there all the time? I feel like I don’t see you enough.”

“I have to supervise the employees and I have meetings to attend, forms to sign… unfortunately, I am a busy man.”

“Hm.” Eloise had taken a piece of his hair in her hand, frowning slightly. “I think you should cut this.”   
Burns snatched his hair back. “I’d, ah, rather not.” _Leave him alone_ , Waylon had thought, _he hasn’t_ _had that much hair in many years._

“You’d look more professional. I think so.”

“Yes, well, there are some things we do not agree upon… I do not believe my appearance takes away from my professionalism.”  
“It was just a suggestion, Monty. Don’t overreact, okay?” She brushed a finger over his lips, and he fell silent.

But it had been more than that, no matter what she tried to play it off as. Eloise’s ‘suggestions’ were more like commands. And then she tried to make it seem like Burns had reacted too strongly, and he was at fault.

Waylon saw Burns much less, because Eloise had made it clear she didn’t want Waylon near them while she was at the manor. And when he was alone with Burns, it was at work, because he had stopped hanging around the manor as much as he had been, instead going to his flat. Their conversations consisted of Burns talking about Eloise, or otherwise business. And even if she were not physically there, she texted and called Burns frequently.

Waylon didn’t see how Burns liked her still, but then he never had. 

He was surprised one day when Burns invited him over to the manor.

“Smithers.”  
“Yes, sir?”

“I feel as if I haven’t spoken with you in ages,” Burns confessed, “do come to the manor tomorrow morning. I’d… like to see you.”

“What about Eloise?”

“I have some time before she arrives.”

Something tugged at his heart, and he wanted to leap up and embrace Burns. Waylon wanted sorely to spend any time with him, without Eloise breathing down their necks. “Sir… Monty?”  
“Yes?”  
“Are you- I mean, you’re okay?”

“Am I… I am fine. Why do you ask?”

“Is it going well with _her_?”

“Yes,” Burns said, “but I think you are jealous of her spending time with me.”

Waylon huffed, rubbing his head. His latest headache was slowly fading. Of course he was jealous, but he also didn’t like Eloise or her behaviour towards Burns. He couldn’t say either of those things, because he didn’t think Burns would listen. “I- like you said, I haven’t seen you outside of work, almost at all. We used to spend more time together. That’s… it.”

Burns seemed to accept his explanation. “That is true. But I have not needed you as often for some tasks since the… change. And Eloise insists I spend more time with her, and I do not want to refuse her.” He shrugged. “I will see you tomorrow.”

Though he was alone with Burns the next morning, at the manor, Waylon knew Eloise would show up soon enough, making it difficult for him to relax.

They sat outside, having finished breakfast. Burns’ eyes shone in the sun, brightening his face. Waylon gazed at him, wanting to wrap his arm around him and hold him close. Their hands brushed against one another, the extent of physical contact. A start.

The air was mostly still, rustling the dense foliage sprawling before them.

“I have become aware of your absence here,” Burns said, “I enjoy Eloise, but with you, it is… less demanding. Sometimes I…” He sighed, the breeze waving his hair. “Eloise wishes to marry me already, in the future.”   
“She _what_?” Waylon dug his nails into the seat cushion. “Monty, it’s been a _week_!”

“I know. But that is what she mentioned to me. I understand she wants to be with me, why would she not? But at present I have no intentions to marry her, nor was I wanting to postulate to her such a query.”

“Have you talked with her about these things?”

Burns furrowed his brow, his hands together between his legs. “Not at length, no. I haven’t found time to do so. But I admit she is taking our relationship quite far in that aspect, more than I’d like…”

“Then talk with her. But I think there’s some problems with your relationship. If she doesn’t treat you with the respect you deserve, you should break up with her.”

“But- she is beautiful, and I still like to be with her. Why wouldn’t she respect me? She will understand, I’m sure, that I do not want to marry her for the time being.” He looked down at his mobile phone. “She will arrive in some minutes. We should return inside.”

“Should I leave?”

Burns considered. “You do not have to. Eloise will only stay for about two hours today; she has other obligations. After she leaves we could reconvene if you wish.”

“Alright. I’ll leave you two alone once she gets here.” It was the exact opposite of what he wanted to do. He didn’t want to leave Burns alone with her again.

Waylon waited with him for Eloise in the foyer. Burns continued twisting his hands, though he tried to maintain a steady disposition. “Are you alright?”

Burns let his hands fall to his sides. “Yes, I am attempting to formulate a line of conversation I could have with Eloise relating to the marriage issue.”

“Did she ever publish that article about you in the _Times_?” Waylon asked, thinking about the interview. “I don’t read that particular journal.”

“Yes, it read just as an anecdote of our conversation… she is an excellent journalist.”

“Ah.”

Eloise sauntered inside through the open doors, embracing and kissing Burns, though he did not appear so eager to romance with her as he had at the very start of their relationship. “Monty! How are you?”

“Fine, thank you. You look… lovely today.”

“Do you like it? It’s the outfit you bought me from Paris.” Eloise twirled in the sundress.

She seemed to notice Waylon and stopped, her dress swirling back into position. “Hello, Smithers.”

Waylon nodded stiffly. As Eloise led Burns away, he grew anxious for his friend and what might happen to him.

In passing, he stopped in front of Burns’ door. Voices inside, though hushed, made him linger.

“… don’t think he needs to be here.”

“He is allowed to remain… Way- Smithers is allowed in my house.” Shuffling. “Eloise, dear, we ought to talk about your, erm, marriage proposal- I find you very attractive and compelling, but I don’t want to marry. It is too soon, yes?”

“I didn’t want to marry you _now_ , Monty.”

“I am aware. That is not what I implied. You are the one who said we should marry.”

“Whatever. What are you doing after I leave, hm?”

Why was she asking him that?

Burns didn’t respond immediately. “I have, as you, other things to which I must attend.”

“I don’t think you should spend time with your assistant outside of work. It’s kind of weird, to me. He’s just your assistant. Forget about him, he’s not important.”

“He is my _personal_ assistant, not only my assistant at work. But this is not about him. It should not matter to you so if I do spend time with him, however.”

“I just want what’s best for you. For us. To focus.”

“Yes...”   
Waylon hoped he didn’t believe her. She was trying to control and manipulate him and his life.

But Burns didn’t see that enough to break up with her now, which concerned him.

It seemed as if Eloise would never leave; when she did at last, Waylon sighed in relief. To think she had only stayed for a couple of hours.

He wanted to talk to Burns about his concerns, but wondered if he would be brushed off again.

“How was it this time?” he asked.

“Good, fine. I am seeing her again in a few days. She, ah, requested that you not be here, but...”

“I heard some of your conversation,” Waylon admitted, “you mentioned me.”

“Then you know what I said. But do not make a habit of listening in to my conversations.”

“Sorry, sir. I was... I was worried what might happen, if it didn’t go well when you talked to her about the marriage thing.”

“I see. If I did have need of you, I would tell you.”

“Duly noted.”

In the late afternoon, they watched a film on Burns’ giant screen, though Burns seemed occupied by his mobile, texting someone. Waylon suspected it was Eloise, as usual.

“Monty, is everything okay?”

Burns paused. He was still rather slow typing on the phone. “What do you mean?”

“She calls and texts you a lot.”

“And? She is allowed to do that.”

“Of course, I...”

Waylon had glimpsed some of their text conversations, as well as heard snippets of phone communications, during the times he was around Burns, mostly at work. He would call parts of what he’d seen alarming. Eloise ‘asking’ for favours, little things that certainly added up; veiled criticisms she played off as ‘constructive’ or ‘just suggestions’. Wanting to know what Burns was doing all the time, when she wasn’t around. Waylon was sick of it.

And Burns’ responses were quiet, passive, peaceable. He didn’t argue with her extensively, gave in to her. Waylon didn’t know what was becoming of his friend, but he didn’t like it. Eloise’s control over him was becoming more and more apparent as time dragged on. He wondered, cynically, if his headaches were due to her.

A few times, he had repeated back to Burns something Eloise had said to him, and asked him if it sounded off. Burns only did mental gymnastics and made up a shallow excuse, or trivialised it as a non-issue. Like now.

“She says she cares about you, but she’s controlling you, Monty.”

“She wants a bit of control in the relationship, there is nothing wrong with wanting that.”  
“But you…”

Burns set his mobile down and turned to him. The film’s credits rolled in front of them. “I told you, there is nothing truly wrong with our relationship. She is eager to be with me, she wishes for me only the best.”

“Do you believe that?” Waylon was exhausted from repeating himself over and over, as again and again, Eloise showed signs of being manipulative and controlling.

“What a ridiculous question. Stop antagonising her so.” Even Burns’ response wasn’t convincing. “There are some things we disagree upon, but that is normal, is it not?”

“But she always gets what she wants.”

“That’s not true. Although she is insistent, I find her… endearing. Assertive.”

Waylon shook his head.

The next time Eloise came to the manor was two days after the last visit. Waylon tried to make himself scarce when she came inside, but he also wanted to keep an eye on her, intervene if he needed to.

To make pretence that he was actually busy, Waylon was taking care of some housekeeping that the workers of the manor hadn’t yet gotten to. He was currently scrubbing a stain from the floor. Then, from down the hall, voices rose, and Waylon stood, his task forgotten. Burns and Eloise stood in the open doorway of the solarium.

“I do not understand why you still insist that I change my hair. It is mine to do with as I please.” Burns’ arms crossed over his chest, his tone defensive. “I thought you had moved on.”

“If you cared about my opinions, you’d consider it. For me.”

“I didn’t say I…”

“I love you,” Eloise blurted. Waylon growled. She did not. If she did, she would respect Burns and his decisions. She wouldn’t display such abhorrent behaviour towards him.

“What are you doing with those?”

Eloise had pulled something out, something that glinted in the surrounding sunlight. A blade, rather, scissors. _Oh no_. “You would look better, trust me.”

“Let’s change the subject. Eloise, ah, put the scissors down.” Burns stepped back from her, his hands going to his hair. He disappeared beyond the doorway; Eloise followed and now only their voices carried.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Eloise shot back, “come here, you’re being irrational.”

“But, dear, surely you understand that there are some things I don’t want to change. This should not matter to you or our relationship.”

“Come here, Monty. Don’t act like that.”

“Excuse me, please _do_ refrain from speaking to me as if I were your disobedient child. We are equals, aren’t we, Eloise?”

“You’re twisting my words. Let’s talk about this together.”

“We _are_. Give me the scissors, dear, yes… What are you… !”

A pause, and then Burns cried out. Waylon ran into the solarium. Burns, his hair intact, held a hand over the side of his face, grimacing. Eloise, frozen, stared at him. The scissors lay on the floor at Burns’ feet.

“What the hell happened?” Waylon rushed to Burns’ side. “Monty, what happened to your face?”

“I... It was an accident,” Eloise insisted, “the scissors...” Waylon glared at her. Burns let Waylon move his hand away from his face, wincing. Marring the skin from his cheek to alongside his mouth was a long tear- not deep, but blood still poured from it, some of which was on Burns’ hand and around the tear.

Eloise still gaped. Waylon glared at her. “Get out. Now. Don’t come back.”

“I-”

“Look what you did to him!”

“It was an accident, I’m sorry, Monty-” She sounded sincere, but she had also inflicted enough damage onto Burns already that it didn’t matter.

“No. And you are not.”

“You know I would never hurt you.”

Burns glowered. “But you _have_. If you cared for me as you claimed, you would have been more careful. You shouldn’t have _thrown_ those scissors AT ME so haphazardly. _Leave_ , Eloise. Get out of my house.”

Eloise muttered, her hair a mess. “You’re both awful, especially you.” She pointed at Burns. Her nail, painted, was chipped. “You’re the worst kind of man. I don’t want to see you again, and don’t come crawling back to me.”

“I would never,” Burns growled. “Now get out before I release the hounds.”

Though he felt some satisfaction hearing the front door slam as she left, Waylon had to attend to Burns. He got a bandage to staunch the flow of blood from the cut.

“I can do that,” Burns said.

“It’s okay, let me.”

Burns didn’t protest as Waylon sat next to him, applying the bandage to his face. He’d take it off in some minutes once the blood stopped. Both he and Burns washed their hands.

“Did she _attack_ you with those?” Waylon pointed to the scissors on the floor.

“She tossed the scissors to me, as would a _fool_ , when I told her to give them to me. I had turned my head slightly to one side. I turned back towards her at an inopportune moment and one of the blades grazed my face.”

“She shouldn’t have been handling the scissors.”

“No. Nor should I have wasted so much of my time on her. I regret it now. She was deceiving and made insult to me.”

“At least it’s only been about a week. But I know what you mean. She was trying to control you. She wanted to change who you are and what you look like.” _When you’re already perfect_ , he added in his head.

“She tried as well to sequester me from your presence,” Burns added. “I am... sorry for that.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“She pretended she cared for me, but how could she?”

“She didn’t,” Waylon agreed. He wished, though, that Burns had listened to him about Eloise’s behaviour sooner. Pity it meant Burns had suffered through.

“You care for me.”

Waylon nodded. “Always.”

“Mm.” 

Peeling the bandage off Burns’ face and disposing of it, Waylon wet a cloth with soap and water, dabbing at the damaged area to remove the dried blood and decrease risk of infection.

“How do you feel?” he asked after pasting a new bandage on the area, which Burns initially objected to, thinking he would look ridiculous. Waylon told him it was only until the cut closed, so he wouldn’t be infected. “Does it hurt?”

“No. It doesn’t hurt now.” Burns looked out the large windows on the opposite wall of the solarium, filtering in light. “I was foolish,” he said, “keeping her on. I was weak.”

“No you _weren’t_. She was manipulating you, she was hurting you, even before now.”

“Yes. I looked past it. She should not have succeeded in manipulating me, that certainly points to a weakness of mine. Damned woman.”

“Monty, don’t blame yourself.”

Burns scoffed. Then he said, “Perhaps I am not destined to fall in love. Would that not be ironic, appearing how I do?”

“There is someone out there for you,” Waylon said, _and they’re right beside you._ But he couldn’t say that part. “You are… very appealing.”

“Hmph.” Burns thought. “Once this unsightly abrasion on my face heals, we ought to go out…”

“Really?” Waylon couldn’t believe his words. Could he mean…

“…to the bar, as I had planned before I met Eloise… I’d like to find someone more suitable, if so possible... And you as well, you may find someone. Anyhow, it would be an exciting excursion, eh?”

“Oh. Yes.” Why had he thought Burns would actually _ask him out_ at all? “The cut should heal in a few days.”

“Very well. Thank you, Waylon.” He paused. “And… thank you for your continued… companionship towards me, beyond that of mere assistant.”

Waylon smiled, trying to shrug off the small disappointment. “Of course.”

The article Eloise had written on Burns for the Times had been ‘mysteriously’ deleted. _Good riddance_ , Waylon thought after they checked the website the next day.

Burns only said about it, “I suppose she wants nothing to do with me, as she said, just as I do not want to see her again, ever.”

At the very least, Eloise was gone from their lives, and his life was semi-normal again, save for Burns’ appearance and the odd headaches he experienced. He still wondered about those.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part four is next!


	5. Part Four: An interlude and an affliction (+ drawing)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waylon and Burns fall into some routine again, but it's not a fulfilling one. They visit a bar, as Burns had requested, after the cut on his face has healed. However, things do not go as either expected that night, but become very interesting nonetheless.

The wound on Burns’ face closed that next morning, so he’d taken off the bandage. Over the following days, he and Waylon continued their daily routines of going to the plant, and Waylon was content to spend more time with him in the absence of any girlfriends. His stays at the manor increased, as they settled into a routine again. The problem with a routine was that it was static in its repetition, leaving Waylon with little hope he and Burns would grow closer than they already were.

In Burns’ office one particular afternoon, Waylon was sorting through some documents, mostly expense reports, disorganised throughout a string of manila folders in a dusty bankers box. The point was to archive them and enter pertinent information into a spreadsheet eventually, and he could have done it in his own office, but Burns didn’t seem to mind him staying. After Waylon had retrieved the box, Burns had looked his way as he was exiting and asked, “Where are you going?”

“My office, sir.”

“You will have to come in here again anyway, if you’re archiving those blasted expense reports, for the other boxes.”

“Oh, right.” There were about ten other boxes on a shelf, some so full of papers and packets that the sides were bursting. He set the box he held onto a table, glancing at Burns, whose head was bent over several sheets of paper and a book. A fountain pen twirled between his fingers. He pushed a hair behind his ear and turned a page in the book.

“Smithers, get to work,” he said, his gaze not wavering from his own work, “the reports will not archive themselves. Sit down.”

Waylon had obeyed and sat himself at the table.  
  


Now it was well into an hour of their shared placidity, focused on the mundanity of archiving, and Waylon had acquired a paper cut, but such was trivial.

A hunger had been growing in his stomach since the small breakfast he’d eaten that morning. The clock read almost two.

“Sir?”  
“What?”

“You haven’t eaten yet, have you?” Waylon knew Burns hadn’t; neither of them had moved from their respective work.

“No.” Burns set down his pen and sat up in his chair, stretching. “Have you anything for me, or for yourself?”

“Er… no, I didn’t bring any food.” 

“No? Rather unprepared of you, but I suppose we’ll have to rely on ordering from some restaurant.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Burns dismissed his apology, shaking his head, and opened a drawer in his desk. He reached into it and extracted a few paper menus. “No matter. I’ve not ordered out for some time.” He held aloft the menus in his hands as one would a deck of cards, able to view them all at once. Eventually he laid them on the table and picked them up individually.

“I don’t think I have tried most of the cuisine listed here- Smithers, have you had Vietnamese?”  
“Many times.”

“Mm… look at it, will you?” He tossed the fold-out menu at Waylon’s table. Adjusting his glasses, Waylon opened it in front of him. “Oh, I’ve been here before. I liked it. I had the chicken and shrimp rice noodle soup last time. Er…” He scanned the dishes. “They have roast quail; you might like the lamb or chicken…”  
“Surprise me, you know what my gastronomical preferences are,” Burns said, “choose something a bit different, however; I daresay in this state I could withstand those dishes more laden with spices.”

After cooking for Burns many years over, he had indeed become well accustomed to his tastes, but his request still surprised Waylon.

The person on the receiver told him the food he’d ordered would be ready in forty-five minutes, but they didn’t want to deliver to the nuclear plant, so Waylon conceded to retrieve it himself, instead of choosing another place. The restaurant wasn’t far. He relayed the news to Burns, who nodded. They continued to work, the scratching of Burns’ fountain pen lulling Waylon into a tranquil quietude, making even his task seem relaxing.

“…Smithers. Waylon.”  
“Wha- yes?” He dropped his pencil.  
Burns tapped on his watch. “I called your name thrice. You should go now, to collect the food, and do hurry back, so it does not spoil.”

“Right.” He stood up, pushing back the chair as he went, grasping his jacket and wallet.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”   
Waylon frowned. There was a slight metallic clink from behind the desk, and Burns held out the keys to his car. He smirked as Waylon took them.

“Er, thank you.” Waylon looked down at the space where their hands had touched for an instant. Never more.

“Now you may leave,” Burns said, “post-haste, Waylon.”

In Burns’ 1930 Cadillac V-16, Waylon played with the radio dial, the sun beyond his periphery casting longer shadows on the landscape, contrasted with its bright but harsh rays that had forced him to wear sunglasses. The day was ideal for a drive, and, had he more time, he would prolong his sojourn, but he had to get the food and return to the plant.

He thought, as he often did, about his latest interaction with Burns. The silent nature of their work had been pleasant, exercising an unspoken trust and desire to share in the other’s company. At least, that is what Waylon took away. He could only guess what was going through Burns’ head. Waylon recalled that he had wanted to go out to a bar once his cut had healed, to meet another woman to replace Eloise. It seemed that day had come, due to Burns’ current lack of any marring on his face save for a faint line.

His heart was sinking in jealousy, frustration, and loneliness. He was tired of feeling unwanted and unimportant, unfulfilled. He didn’t know for how much longer he could keep up his emotional barriers around Burns.

Waylon parked at the restaurant and went inside, picked up the food, returned to the car. Not wanting to think more about Burns on the drive back, he turned up the audio and opened the windows, the wind as he sped along giving him some odd catharsis as Genesis blared on the radio.

“Smithers, you took longer than I had expected,” Burns offered in greeting. “Motor troubles?”  
“No, sir. The food is still warm, though.”

Waylon placed the cellophane bag on the table, pushing his unfinished work aside. “I hope you like what I got for you,” he said, removing all the containers; the tell-tale aromas of spices, herbs, and oils wafted from them. “I’ll set the table.”   
Burns stood from his chair and peered into the containers while Waylon brought out bowls, placemats, and glasses of water. He transferred most of the food to the bowls thereafter.

“Is this crab soup?” Burns was examining the contents of his bowl, poking it with the provided chopsticks.

“Yes, crab pho. There’s beef slices in it too. It’s different than what you’d usually have, so I was hoping you might like it. It’s supposed to be a little spicy.”  
“And what are you having?”  
“Chicken fried rice.”

“That I am more familiar with.” Burns started on half a spring roll before tasting his soup. Waylon, into his own lunch, paused, waiting for his reaction.

Burns kept a neutral expression at first, but that slipped when, seconds after he swallowed the food, he downed his entire glass of water.

“Is it… too much?” Waylon asked.

Burns wiped his face delicately with a napkin. “No. I did not expect the level of spice or flavour I experienced, but I enjoyed and withstood it. Your decision was appreciated.”

Waylon poured him more water. “Thank you. I’m glad you think so.”

Burns positioned his chopsticks and dove into the bowl again. “So, Waylon,” he said, swirling noodles and veg around, “my face is once again presentable to the fairer sex, and tonight I wish to go to an establishment in which to meet someone, as we had discussed, do you remember?”

 _More than I want to._ “Yes, I remember.” He had fully expected Burns to mention it, and was even surprised he hadn’t already. The day had come, indeed.

He had laid down his chopsticks, his hand limp beside the bowl.

A sensation upon his hand, thrilling him and jolting forward his heart, alarmed him. Burns’ hand lay on his.

“Are you well?”   
“What? Yes.” _No._

“You have a melancholy air about you,” Burns continued, and still he rested his hand on Waylon’s.   
“Er… I don’t know. I’m fine.” What would happen if he gripped Burns’ hand within his own? “Nothing’s wrong. I just… feel kind of tired.” Yes, that might work.

“You’re lying to me. You’ve been moping throughout our luncheon.” Burns narrowed his eyes. “Surely, you are not _pre-emptively_ jealous of my meeting women again? Get a grip, man!”

“I’m just…” Was this the moment, that he would tell Burns everything? “I don’t want to stop… being friends, or not see you anymore because of a girlfriend.”

Burns’ expression softened. “You do have a place in my life, you know. I would not terminate our acquaintanceship.”

“I… thank you. Sorry.”

“Stop apologising.” Burns patted his hand before withdrawing and picking up his chopsticks. “Tonight we’ll have a gay time, you’ll see.”

Waylon almost spit out his water. If only.

“Smithers! Smithers, I am a motorist!” Burns exclaimed, his giddiness apparent, as he accelerated, the needle of the speedometer rising past sixty, seventy. The speed limit was fifty. _Why did I say he could drive home? He’s reckless._

They were returning to the manor from the plant. Burns turned on the road towards his house with some ease; the gates opened for him and he slammed on the brakes before parking the car in the driveway, jolting the vehicle backwards. Waylon flinched. Burns didn’t seem to notice.

“When, er, do you want to go out tonight?” he asked as they exited.

“Later.” Burns straightened himself and sighed. “I think a bit of physical excursion is in order for the present. How do you feel about running?” He tapped his long fingers together.

“Didn’t you go on a run around the plant today?” In the morning, Burns had disappeared from his office. Through a window Waylon had caught a glimpse; he’d been a blur, only identifiable by the flashes of sunlight upon his hair.

“Smithers, I have the endurance and stamina of a young man again! I am able to run about as often as I please.”

“Should I come with you?”

Burns crossed his arms. “I already asked you how you felt about running, so, yes. If I hadn’t wanted for you to come, I wouldn’t have asked.” He waited for Waylon to open the front door before they went inside. “I must wear some more suitable garment. Mm…” He examined Waylon. “You do keep some of your own clothing here?”  
“Yes, sir. I’ll… I’ll go change, too, if you don’t… need anything else from me.”  
“When you’ve finished, do wait for me outside my chambers,” Burns continued, “and then we will go outside.”  
Waylon nodded. “Alright.”

He and Burns parted to change their clothes; Waylon went to the guest room that held his clothes that he left in the closet in case he ever needed them, like now. Burns also had many matching outfits that they had worn together on various occasions. Waylon changed into an outfit for outdoor activity, all the while his mind on Burns. He found himself still incredulous that Burns had repossessed the physicality of his younger self. Though he seemed to act mostly as he had before, Burns’ disposition was nonetheless changing, in response to the transformation, if so slightly. His energy, impulse, euphoria, the realisation he was young again, all fuelled one another and in turn the gradual change.

Waylon walked down the halls to Burns’ door and smiled slightly when he heard him humming.

Burns emerged minutes later in some shirt and knee-length shorts that accentuated his form, his hair tied away from his face. Waylon’s gaze lingered on Burns’ waist and his eyes travelled up to Burns’, intense and utterly profound. He could stay there indefinitely…

Burns cleared his throat in the silence. “Well, Smithers, let’s go, stop gawking so boorishly.” He rocked on his heels. “And after this, we shall go out to some fine establishment to drink and make conversation with suitable women. Someone who is not _Eloise_.” He shook his head.  
“Yes, sir.” Every time he brought it up, Waylon’s heart sank a bit more. But what could he do? Burns had every right to seek out another who would care for him in ways Eloise never had. If only Burns would realise that it was he, Waylon, who could fulfil that role. The unfortunate irony of the situation never failed to disappoint him, especially since he doubted Burns’ reciprocation.

They ventured outside via a back door that led to the manor grounds, sprawling acres of foliage where Waylon as a young child had lost himself exploring. In the early evening, the air was warm and rather pleasant. And quiet.

“Smithers, don’t just stand there!”   
Waylon smiled at him. “Sorry, sir.” He eased into a light jog after Burns, who had a head-start of about ten seconds.

Burns’ speed was impressive, but Waylon was quite athletic himself, and so was able to catch up to him. Burns had barely broken a sweat. His hair, strands alight in the setting sun, flew behind him.

How amazing it must have felt, to have the endurance of youth after so many years long past such an age. Like resurfacing from the depths of the ocean after holding your breath and exhaling in the clear air. Feeling alive, conscious of every moment.

They made a few rounds through as the sky darkened and the night began to emerge. Twilight settled.

“That was a good run, eh, Smithers?” Burns asked as they went back inside, his cheeks red.

Waylon nodded, slightly out of breath. “Yes, sir.”   
“And now,” Burns continued, making a twirl, “we shall change clothes again and then go out.”

“… Right.”

“This looks acceptable. Smithers, stop here.” Burns was pointing out a bar; Waylon slowed and parked the car near it. _Well,_ he thought, _I guess Monty will be making… friends tonight.  
_ “Smithers, what are you doing? Come on. You will not simply lounge here staring at nothing.”

“Sorry, sir.” Waylon got out of the car and followed Burns, slow on his feet, into the proffered bar.

As he had expected, it was dark, and rather loud inside, though the noise level was lower than that of some other bars he’d been to.

In the flashing lights which on their own dominated the shadows, Burns seemed almost ethereal. Phasing in and out of an enticing dream Waylon didn’t want to wake from. Though, if this were a dream, he could take Burns by the hand and confess his love, and there would be no consequences.

“One brandy… and what will you have, Smithers?”   
Waylon jolted, saying the first thing that came to mind. “Oh… gin and tonic, I guess.”

The bartender nodded and made up their drinks. Burns took his and sipped it. Waylon took his and held it, but didn’t actually drink. Though perhaps the only thing that would get him through tonight was being drunk.

  
Burns had turned to some woman sitting next to him at the bar, leaning his hand on his chin, taking frequent sips of brandy, swirling it in the glass as he spoke to her. Waylon ordered a shot of vodka and downed it. He considered getting another as he watched Burns finish the brandy and lean forward. The woman backed out from her seat, saying something, shaking her head before disappearing into the crowd. Burns shrugged and turned back towards Waylon. “I cannot charm them all,” he concluded, “I don’t know if that would have been a fruitful endeavour, anyhow. What about yourself, Waylon…?”

“No, sir, I’m not much of a _charmer_ myself.”

“ _Really_ …” He put emphasis on the ‘e’. Burns reached for Waylon’s unfinished gin and tonic and tilted it back, swallowing a bit before setting it on the wooden counter and then repeating the motion.   
“Sir, I don’t know if you should-”

“I’m young again, Waylon, I want to enjoy it,” Burns hissed, out of the other patrons’ earshot, “Goodness knows I did not enjoy the past week. I am allowed to partake in small pleasures.”

“Yes, but if you keep drinking-”

Burns rolled his eyes. “Don’t lecture me. I’m not going to drink all throughout the night. I am not so idiotic to become overly inebriated like some insipid patsy…” He waved his hand at Waylon, brushing his chest. “But I’m allowed a few glasses of inebriant.”

Burns finished the drink, sliding it forward for the barkeep to collect. Waylon thought, _Now I can’t get drunk, if he does. Why did we have to come here?_

After doing nothing but watch Burns flirt and drink for nearly an hour, trying to keep the alcohol away from him, Waylon decided to take a short break outside, telling Burns where he was going, though he wasn’t sure if he had been heard; the only indication had been a shallow nod. Waylon pushed open the door, and leaned against an illuminated section of the wall, beset with promotional posters, some fading and layered over. He closed his eyes against the backdrop of rustling crickets. He had only been there for a couple of minutes when the doors opened again; Waylon didn’t think anything of it until the figure approached him, a middle-aged man. He wore a shirt that read, Galley Reel Bar, Springfield. It was the bartender who had served him and Burns “Excuse me, sir?”

Waylon started. “Yes?”

“The man who sat nearby you inside, is he with you?”

“Which one?”  
“Long hair, green dress shirt…”  
“Oh… yes?”

“Just wanted to let you know, your friend is getting a bit out of hand, he’s had a lot to drink, and I don’t think he can handle it. He’s making a scene in front of the other customers.”

“Mr Burns? Is he okay?”  
“That’s _Mr Burns_? The nuclear plant guy? Wow. I wouldn’t expect him to be here. To answer your question, he’s drunk, but otherwise fine, but I do have to ask you to leave…”

“Yes, of course.”

Waylon returned inside, the loud atmosphere enveloping him again as the door closed behind. He approached the bar area and scanned hastily for Burns. _What is he doing_?

The man in question had stretched himself over a few barstools, wearing sunglasses that didn’t belong to him. He had one leg crossed over the other and an empty glass he held idly in one hand. His pose was nonetheless elegant, even dignified. People were giving him a wide berth, though a few lingered to gawk. 

“That’s Mr Burns,” they whispered, “the rich guy.”

“Really? Shit…” 

“What is he doing?”

“He’s drunk.”

“My cousin works for his plant… she never talked about Burns, but he’s strange.”

“Clearly.”

“What the hell, Monty?” Waylon muttered, coming over to the splayed-out Burns, having pushed through the people. “What happened?”

Burns tilted down the sunglasses and turned his head. His eyes were glassy. “Smith’rs… I’ve a bit to drink…” he slurred, “everyone’s being rude… I don’t understand the problem. I only had…” He stopped. “The women here don’t like me. I don’t know why… I’ve had plenty of lovers …”  
Waylon slid the glass from Burns’ fingers and placed it on the counter. “Sir, we should probably-”

“Smithers…,” Burns grabbed his collar, “ _You_ like me…”  
Waylon froze, only inches from his face. The continuous shifting lights played upon its angles and curves without distortion, highlighting and changing colours upon the surfaces. Waylon blinked. “Er, yes, I do, sir, but…”  
“What?”   
“I… don’t know.” He couldn’t have this conversation now. Not here, not with Burns like this. He was frozen, surrounded by strangers watching them, unable to articulate himself.

Burns stared at him before laughing. “You don’t know…!”

Waylon bit his lip. “We should leave.”

“But I’m having such a gay evening here, like I said we would… aren’t you?” His words were not enunciated beyond a continued slurring. 

Waylon sighed, vaguely anxious over how the onlookers were interpreting their interaction; his priority was Burns’ safety. “Monty, we should leave,” he repeated. “All these people are looking at you,” he said more quietly, only in earshot of Burns.

“But _Waylon_ …” Burns whinged. “We’ve only just arrived...”

“Hey, man,” said some guy in an orange vest sitting on a nearby stool, “your boyfriend is really drunk, you should take him home.”  
“He’s- yeah, I’m trying to,” Waylon said quickly, not concerned enough with the false assumption to properly correct the man. “Monty _, please_ , come on.”

When he didn’t respond, Waylon took Burns from under and made to lift him off the stools to carry him out instead. 

“Waylon, what’re you doing?” Burns protested. “Let _go_ of me. I want to stay.” Waylon set down two hundred-dollar bills on the bar counter, nodded to the bartender, then made a retreat to the car outside.   
  


“Sorry, sir, but you’re really drunk,” he said, sliding Burns into the passenger seat and starting the engine after getting in himself. “We’re going back to the Manor now.”   
“But I still haven’t found anyone… I want t’ stay…”   
Waylon sighed. “I think the _women_ would much rather have you flirt with them when you’re sober. It would make you seem more sincere, genuine.”

“Perhaps you’re right, dear Waylon…” Burns yawned. “You know… you’re more genuine, to me.”   
Waylon froze. “What?”

“Than them,” Burns said. “I don’t talk to you like women.”

“Er… well, I-”

“They don’t understand me…” Burns closed his eyes. “You understand me, Waylon…”

“I try to...”

Waylon halted suddenly at a red light. A hand dug into his shoulder. Burns had opened his eyes, and he stared at Waylon. “Don’t leave me…”

Waylon turned his head, meeting Burns’ regard. “Monty,” he said, “I would never leave you…” _I love you._

“You’re the only one who wouldn’t.”

Waylon shifted, the car feeling stifling. He couldn’t sit in a car with a drunken Burns like this. It wasn’t as if Monty would ever say these things to him sober. Or remember he said it in the first place.

“I can go to bed myself, I’m not a child. Go to your own room, go away.” Burns scowled.

“But… sir, I don’t live here.”

Burns glared at him. “I don’t care. I thought I was your boss. Do what I say.”   
“Yes, you- er, what are you doing?”  
Burns had stripped to his pants. “This is how one sleeps, is it not, scantily clad in knickers?”

Waylon stared for longer than he should have at Burns’ midriff. “I guess so.”   
Burns nodded. “Yes. You can go now.” He waved his hand lazily to the open door of his bedroom, swaying on his feet. Waylon furrowed his brow.

“Sir, are you sure you don’t want me to do anything for you?”  
“Just because I’ve had a few drinks doesn’t mean I need your help.” He pushed Waylon into the hall. “Just go… what are you doing, waiting for me to kiss you?”  
Waylon turned to him, startled. “What?”

“Waylon... heh,” Burns said, laughing, “your name is strange, isn’t it, I’ve never met another Waylon. Except your father… otherwise, Whelan, yes, but not Waylon. Way-lon. Way long. Long Way. Long way to where, Waylon?”

“Monty, please, you aren’t making sense right now.”

“Sense is only sense if it makes sense to everyone.” Burns leaned towards him, grasping his shoulders, his breathing laborious. His eyes were glassy, face pale, he had an odd expression. He doubled over. _Shit_. Waylon moved behind him, pulling him up before he fell. Burns’ body beneath his grip shook. Retching, he vomited onto the hall floor, coughing as he went. 

Waylon held Burns’ hair away from his face, supporting him from behind until he finished. At that point, Burns’ body begin to dip forward, sweat glistening on his forehead. Waylon caught him and hauled him up again and away from the vomit. He carried Burns back into his bedroom and onto his bed, turning him on his side. He had already fallen asleep. 

Glancing back at him, Waylon returned to the hall to clean up. He got some supplies from the closet and wiped the floor on his knees, then placed a bedpan near the bed in case Burns were ill again. Yawning, he put everything away and went to Burns’ closest guest room.

Would Burns even be prepared to wake up and go to work the next morning? Decidedly not, out of the question. _I should have stopped him from drinking so much,_ Waylon scolded himself. _This is my fault_.

After some minutes, he creaked open the door of Burns’ room. He was still asleep, in the position Waylon had left him in. He had kicked the sheets off and though he was unconscious had a drawn brow, mouth grimacing. Every now and then he’d grunt or groan softly, shift a bit. 

Waylon waited for a while longer until Burns’ expression lost its edge and his breathing evened out. Telling himself he would come back, he went to the guest room and got into bed, finding a comfortable area under the covers.

But he could only lay there in the space between awake and sleep. Would he be able to handle Burns in this state? Or was it too much? If Burns weren’t careful, he could seriously injure himself- he was too drunk on youth. It was his ecstasy, to have a rush of adrenaline and blissful freedom as he hadn’t for so many years. Waylon didn’t want to take that away from him by policing him- not that he could, anyway.

He found no solace in shifting around to find a suitable position on the bed after that. It was nearly midnight now. Could they take off from work if necessary? Or would that jeopardise the entire population, what with the current selection of employees?

A sudden cry cut through his thoughts. It wasn’t especially loud, but a noise that rose and fell in octave that alarmed him still. Waylon was almost to the door when a scream sounded, louder, filling his head and sending him out into the hall.

He twisted open the handle of Burns’ door and ran into the room. Burns sat up in bed, the nearby lamp illuminating his perspiring forehead. He clutched the sheets in his hands. He stared forward towards the wall, his chest rising and falling quickly. 

“Sir, Monty, did something happen? I heard a scream.”

Burns started and turned so hastily towards Waylon that the sheet twisted around his body and he almost fell off the bed. Waylon gently pushed him back onto it.   
Burns coughed, and blinked. “I had a nightmare,” he muttered, his voice faintly hoarse, “it was horrible. And life-like. It felt too real. Perhaps a fault of the ill-consumed alcohol I had…”

“What happened?”  
“I was getting to that. Don’t be impatient.” Burns sighed. “I was _old_ again, Smithers. I was weak, I…” He pressed his lips together. “Then… then I couldn’t move, it was dark, a confined space, and suddenly I was looking down at a casket, and I realised it was probably mine…”  
“Is that what made you scream?”

“No,” Burns said, “after that, I was in a casket again, an open one, at… at a funeral, I suppose, and I couldn’t move anything except my eyes. And… you were there, you looked at me, and I wanted to tell you to help me, I wasn’t really dead, but I couldn’t speak…” Burns looked down at the bed. “Oh, Waylon, it felt so real, I was terribly afraid,” he added quietly. “I was falling then, and I felt myself… unravel until the bare bones, and that was all I could see.” He shuddered. “And I… I could see it as it was happening to me.”

“And then you woke up?”

“Yes. That was why… I screamed.” Burns pushed back the hair from his face, which clung to his forehead. “I didn’t realise it pierced through my nightmare, that I screamed aloud.” He dropped the sheets from his hands and entwined his fingers, unsteady. “Perhaps my youth is only an illusion.”

Waylon frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I-” Burns stopped. “Smithers!” He looked about wildly and gesticulated to the container near Waylon’s feet, his hand flying to cover his mouth. Waylon grabbed it, sliding it in front of him, and Burns bent over it, proceeding to vomit. At least this time it wasn’t onto the floor. 

When he rose again, his face was pale, with blotchy spots of colour. Waylon deposited the container away from the bed. “Do you need me to get you anything?” he asked.

“I’d like some water, I suppose.”

“Of course.” Spotting the pitcher Burns kept, he filled a glass with water, set it on Burns’ nightstand within reach, and went to dispose of the contents of the container before leaving it to soak and retrieving a new container. When he returned to the room, Burns held the glass in one hand, taking slow sips, his eyes partially closed. “I feel horrible,” he told Waylon. “Oh… why didn’t you stop me from drinking so much alcohol?”  
“I…” _I didn’t. I didn’t do enough._ “I’m sorry.”   
“You didn’t try hard enough, because I feel awful.” Burns crossed his arms. “Feel my forehead, Smithers.”

“It’s very warm,” Waylon said, taking care not to linger on the touch, “maybe you have a fever.”  
Burns wiped at his forehead with the hand not holding the water. “What is my temperature, then? Find the thermometer. And a fan. It’s sweltering in here.” As he spoke, he shivered.

 _He probably does have a fever,_ Waylon thought as he went to fulfil Burns’ requests.

When he came back, he set the fan up and gave Burns the thermometer.

“Smithers, how does this switch on?” Burns turned the device over in his hands. “Never you mind, I believe it’s this button here. Ah, yes.”   
“Sir, the metal part goes under your tongue.”

“I know that, you fool!”   
About a minute passed and the thermometer chimed. Burns pulled it out and stared at the little screen. “Ninety-nine point five,” he announced, “I was right.”

“What should we do about the plant tomorrow?”  
Burns blinked. “Oh, the plant. Well, they’ll get on without me, although I don’t trust that group of nitwits to not cause another Chernobyl. Get someone to supervise them. I don’t care who.”

“Yes, sir.”

“As I was saying before this… _mishap_ ,” Burns continued, “I feel my youth is an illusion because I am still weak. That hasn’t changed. I may look like an Adonis, but I hardly feel like one. Look at what has happened just tonight- I became disgustingly drunk and vomited- twice; I had a nightmare that left me screaming aloud, and now I am ill! If you don’t call that weak… and that is not to mention what happened with Eloise…”

“Monty, you were never weak to begin with,” Waylon said emphatically, “no matter your age. Eloise was not your fault. Just because you have a _fever_ -”

“I wished for youth so I might be infallible. But nothing has changed. I may have more energy and the ideal body, of course, but I-” He sighed.

“Listen, Monty,” Waylon said, “you are the furthest from weak that a person could ever be. How you can think anything else, I don’t know.”  
Burns stared at him for a while. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked finally, “to boost my ego?”

Waylon swallowed. “I… I’m telling you because it’s true.”

Burns rolled his eyes. “All you do is tell me what I want to hear. You said it yourself, I’m not weak, so I don’t need you to beguile me with false sentimentalities!”

“ _False sentimentalities_? Is that really what you think?” Waylon’s voice shook. “After all this time, you think it’s only a- a _ploy_?” He clenched his fist, his fingers digging into his palm. _How can he be so dense?_

Burns straightened himself in bed. “I think you do whatever I say - which _is_ what I want, of course, your loyalty- but it can be _boring_ , and to top it off, you sing me unfettered praise. I don’t understand your infatuation with me. If you weren’t so damned efficient all the time... But you get nothing in return from me… except your salary, and even then-”

“I don’t care,” Waylon burst, “I never cared about the salary-”

“I don’t even _pay_ you that much-”

“I wouldn’t care if you didn’t pay me at all!” Waylon exhaled. His face felt hot. “Damn you, Monty, I’ve meant everything I’ve said!”  
  


Burns raised his eyebrow. “What, then you just like to constantly please me?” He narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

His hands now felt rather sweaty. “Because, I…”  
“You what? Tell me, Waylon.”

Hedging wouldn’t work this time. “I love you.” _There, I’ve said it_. Waylon regarded him apprehensively for a reaction, but found he couldn’t hold his gaze, and dropped it.

“So that… that…” Burns faltered. “You _actually_ love me?” he finally sputtered, “it is not just an infatuation…?”

“I’ve _been_ in love with you for almost thirty years.”

“I… you… how am I supposed to respond to that?” Burns yawned, then reached over and turned off the lamp, leaving only the light from the hall. “I can hardly think as it is.” He rubbed at his eye, then lay back down and pulled the sheet to his chest. “Go back to your room, Waylon. We will continue when I have a clearer head and am not still half-drunk.”

“…Right.”

“Leave the door open,” came Burns’ voice as he left.

Waylon nodded slowly, then yawned despite himself, and went to the door. A conversation unfinished. Would it ever be anything else?

Bonus: Monty and Waylon in their outfits for 'outdoor activity' as I imagined it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Next up is part five/chapter six.


	6. Part Five: Something, not nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Waylon's confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit short, being under 2000 words, but the next one is longer; I considered combining them but I thought it was better not to. Thank you to everyone who's given kudos and commented so far.

Waylon could have run from Burns’ bedroom. Who was he to think it had been a good idea to tell Burns how he felt? At least, he should have waited until the next day, or when Burns was in a better state of mind and body.

_You actually love me? It is not just an infatuation?  
How am I supposed to respond to that?_

_Go back to your room, Waylon. We will continue when I have a clearer head and am not still half-drunk_. The immediate, and now prolonged, uncertainty of Burns’ response, to be resumed in the morning, only made Waylon doubt himself. The chasm of ambiguity swallowed his fear and waning self-confidence. Deep, awful fear, what Burns must think of him now. Worthless.

An unwanted headache invaded his depreciation as he looked in the guest bathroom mirror. Waylon shut his eyes, turning away into the adjoining bedroom. His phone sat on the nightstand. He stared at it, feeling as if there were something he was supposed to do, for Burns… Burns had wanted for him to find someone to look after the plant. A mechanical task to disengage him from his thoughts.

Though it was rather late to do so, Waylon contacted a few trusted administrative higher-ups, so that the plant would still be under competent management while Burns recovered from his fever for some days.

Fatigued, he finally crawled into bed, a mess of emotions and anxieties, and went to sleep. He woke a few times from some fading dream that he soon after forgot.

Now, at around ten-thirty, Waylon stretched and lay in the blissful space of quiet solitude before reality reared its ugly head and bombarded him with memories of the ‘conversation’ he and Burns had had. How could one even call it a conversation? An anticlimactic confession.

Maybe, some part of him thought, things would go better when they spoke again. But Waylon had no concrete idea of how Burns would act. Fear overwhelmed his speculation. Burns could say much worse than simply ‘No’, which would be a welcome form of rejection. An amalgam of every worse scenario ran through his mind, in which the narrative followed a pattern:

_How dare you come to me, and tell me such drivel. You will never be more to me than you are. Get out._

Such could be irrational, he supposed.

Burns’ door was still ajar when Waylon approached it.

“Waylon. Come inside and stop stalling in the doorway.”

Burns faced the far wall, sitting in bed and supported by a few pillows. His eyes flicked towards Waylon, conveying nothing.  
Waylon fidgeted with his hands, standing some feet from the bed. Burns coughed, his expression weary and complexion pasty.

“Sir, we… don’t have to talk about the… last night now, you should rest. I’m sorry that I said anything…”

Burns exhaled. “I _am_ resting,” he said, “and I said I wanted to finish our conversation.” He rubbed his temple. “My head is clearer, but some parts of last night are a blur even still. It hurts.”  
“I can go get you something to help the pain.”

“Not yet. Stay.” Burns regarded him. “I told you how I didn’t know how to respond to your confession. I still do not have a concise answer. I… will try to tell you what I think.” Waylon opened his mouth, but Burns continued, “Waylon. I value you as an excellent, loyal, assistant to me for so many years, and as my… _companion_ , my… friend, beyond that.” He spoke slowly, as if struggling to get the words out.

“I suppose the initiative for your unrelenting devotion and consistently impeccable work is your… love of me. I must admit, I do not pretend to understand _why_ you feel this way- clearly it is deep-set, and you aren’t simply taken by my looks, past or present.”  
Waylon almost smiled. “I love _you_ , Monty, not just your appearance, if I did, then I wouldn’t have… fallen in and stayed in love with you.”

You said almost _thirty_ years?” Burns shook his head. “You’ve been profoundly smitten- enamoured- for _that long_ without wavering or losing hope that more might pass between us... I have before suspected deeper motives on your part, but I didn’t conclude you were truly in love with me. Now I’ve realised just how transparently you wear your heart on your sleeve.”

Waylon blushed despite himself at the latter comment. “ _Of course_ I’ve lost hope in anything happening,” he said quietly, “most times I’ve had very little faith in ever us being together. But that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped loving you. I couldn’t.”

“I see…” Burns looked thoughtful. “Your persistence is admirable.” He continued, “And you are sincere, in everything you do for me. You’ve been happy to comply to my orders- for _me_ , not for your own gain. You don’t need to be persuaded by a check or a stack of money, like some lowbrow, bumbling yes-man. You do these things, for _me_ , not just your job description, and I seldom praise you-”

“It would be odd if you did.”

“I still have things to say, let me finish!” Burns huffed. “Your spirit is resilient, proud- you, Waylon, are… exceptional.”

“What do you mean?” He could hardly hear himself.

“It’s difficult to put into words how I feel towards you. I’m not going to lie to you and give an answer that’s not adequate or true. I don’t _know_. You’ve been by my side for twenty-odd years and I… I’ve no idea how to have this conversation with you.” He paused. “I feel I’ve never known you.”  
_Well, not like that._ “Monty, you know me better than almost anyone,” Waylon said.

“And you myself,” Burns said, “perhaps this is why only we have any memory of my past life- because of our… close proximity to one another.”  
_I’d like to call it more_. “I guess so.”  
“There is some value to that idea. It is what kept us together in this… brave new world.” He tilted his head. “What do you think?”  
“Maybe it’s telling us something else.”

Burns furrowed his brow. “It’s not so profound. But…” He laughed suddenly.  
“What?”  
“If I weren’t feverish, I might tell you to kiss me.”

Waylon blinked. “ _What_?” he repeated.

“How else am I to know if I feel anything like you do?”  
“You don’t need to kiss me to know if you feel anything,” Waylon told him. _He would be willing to do that?  
_“But you would like it.”  
“Well, _yes_ , but that’s not the point! And you’re sick.” He glanced at the container on the floor. “At least you haven’t thrown up again.”  
“Yes, that was a side effect of the alcohol,” Burns decided, “did you take care of the plant’s management, by the way?”

“Of course.”

Burns nodded. “You are quite invaluable to me,” he said, “even in this state of youth, which, in some ways, is not so dissimilar from my previous state...”

“You don’t… still think you’re _weak_ , do you?”

“I do, at times, yes. We discussed this last night- this morning, whichever. But that is aside.” He sighed. “I can’t- I cannot articulate to you exactly how I feel. I’ve not been able to.”  
Waylon’s heart jolted. “What do you mean?”

Burns clenched his hands. “You ought to know, I don’t often enjoy discussing my feelings at length, especially when they concern another. It feels like something so vacuous and not worth mentioning, such an ugly conversation piece.”

“But they _do_ matter.”

“It is what I know- what I knew. However- perhaps I was misguided.” Burns seemed to recoil at the admission. “When I speak under usual circumstances, I don’t care to espouse the subject of my feelings. But as it turns out, things are always a bit different with you. You are…” -Burns cleared his throat- “the only one who has ever professed to me such absolute love and devotion. But I’m just spouting redundancy.”  
“I-”

“Oh, Waylon. Do get that medicine you mentioned now, will you?” Burns asked, leaning back onto his bed.

He frowned at the sudden change of topic but obliged anyhow. After he returned and administered the medicine, Burns mentioned he was hungry, and told Waylon to ring the cook to order two breakfasts. (“Well, it’s only proper that the both of us eat rather than only myself,” Burns had said).

“How do you feel now?”

“Tired,” Burns said, “lethargic. Rather warm. Turn the fan on.”

“It _is_ on.”  
“Then get another one.”

Waylon found another fan in the hall closet and plugged it in near Burns’ bed. “How is that?”

“Fine.”

Waylon took a deep breath. “Sir, I’m sorry…”  
“For what are you apologising _now_?”  
“Well, for this conversation being necessary at all; if I hadn’t made things awkward…”  
Burns rolled his eyes. “I told you I… have trouble divulging my feelings _,_ but I was doing so because I wanted to clear the air. Although, I didn’t know how to forward the discussion.” He paused. “I still don’t know if I do. But we are not finished.”

“When… you said you couldn’t… articulate how you feel, and you haven’t been able to,” Waylon said, “did you mean in general, or about _me_?”

“Does it have to be about you?” Burns whinged, “what do you think? Don’t be obtuse.”

“Sir-”

“ _Yes_. The latter.” Burns shook his head. “Why do you think I have afforded so much of my time to discuss this with you, if I were only going to reject your confession? And we haven’t yet concluded.”

“What else did you want to say?”  
“I am not a man to give an indefinite answer, even when it does take me some time to say what I want. You have little patience.” He waited before continuing, “I don’t know if I feel the way you do about me.”

Waylon couldn’t help feeling disheartened, but who was he to think Burns would reciprocate? “I understand, sir.”

Burns watched him. “Waylon, don’t sulk. Let me finish. That doesn’t mean the endgame. It is true that I cannot give a name to or define these… feelings for you. Know that they do, however, _exist_.”  
Waylon lifted his head. “You mean, you…”

Burns nodded once.

The weight left his chest, dissolving, letting him exhale. Burns was correct, but Waylon had come to expect rejection, and couldn’t help his surprise to a contrary, gratifying, outcome. “I… I’m sorry. I jumped to conclusions.” He laughed, nervous, relieved. 

“That you did,” Burns said, not unkindly. “Don’t assume you know everything.”

Suffice to say, he wouldn’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for part six! Thanks for reading.


	7. Part Six: Questions among anxieties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waylon and Burns eat breakfast. Waylon has a dream. They receive an unexpected visitor to the manor, who gives some upsetting news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's part six.

In terms of the breakfast, they hadn’t held further conversation while they ate. Waylon was occupied by his thoughts, anxiety that he was afraid to voice to Burns. Even though Burns had made known how he felt, Waylon didn’t know where to go with that knowledge. He didn’t get any sense that Burns was yet ready to act on his feelings.

But his speculation was slowed by his fatigue. After the night of little sleep, waking multiple times, he wanted to nod off now. And when he’d been seated for some time, he found himself drifting into unconsciousness, jerking awake.

He looked over at Burns after a while, who was staring down at his blankets, his legs crossed over one another. If he had noticed Waylon’s behaviour, he didn’t comment.  
“How do you feel?” Waylon asked him.

Burns seemed startled. “Largely the same as I did, I suppose, it’s not as if I could’ve changed how I feel so quickly,” he said. “You do mean my fever?”  
“Er, yes. What did you-”

“Never you mind.”

Waylon sighed. “How was your breakfast?”

“The eggs had too much salt for my liking.” Burns shrugged.   
“That’s why you didn’t finish them.”  
“Yes.” Burns tilted his head. “How observant, dear Waylon.”   
_Is he patronising me?_ “What else can I do for you?” If he were occupied, perhaps he could avoid falling asleep.

Burns held out his glass, and Waylon took it. “You can refill my water.”

“Anything else?”  
“No. Must you have something to do every damned second?” Burns sighed. “Don’t be needy.”

“Would you rather I left?”

“No. Stay here.”

“You know,” Waylon said, “you’re sending mixed messages.”

A snort. Whether of disdain or amusement, Waylon wasn’t sure.

“I did tell you, I’m not good with these matters, nor do I really like them.”  
“Alright, but I… you told me you like me, in some capacity beyond friends, and then you… well, I guess it’s some of my fault too. I know things between us won’t change immediately or at all, really, I just…”

“What? What weighs on your mind?”

Burns was entertaining his rambling, possibly because he didn’t have anything else to do, but Waylon was grateful anyway. “I was… I was ecstatic when you told me you liked me, in any amount, as something more than a friend. I couldn’t believe we were even having that conversation. But now we haven’t talked about it anymore, and it just seems like everything’s carrying on normally. I understand if you’re anxious… I am too, but…” He sighed. “I don’t know if it’s going to go anywhere, if we’re…” He faltered, twisting the ends of his shirt, then looked at Burns, exhaled. “Monty, I love you, and I don’t want this to pass by, if….” He pleaded silently for Burns to comprehend.

Burns crossed his legs, formulating a response. “I will admit to you some degree of anxiety for the near future, but I told you that my declaration was not the endgame,” he reminded, “being that the subject matter is not trivial, my earlier word was not the catch-all of my feelings, of which I have given you summation to satisfy your need for a response. A starting point, if you will.”  
Waylon nodded. “I… I understand.”

Burns continued, “You seem tired.”

Waylon shrugged, stifling a yawn.

“My point exactly. You should rest.” He followed such a statement with, “I expect you still want to attend to my every whim, but such sentiment is useless when your energy levels are low.”

“I’m fine.”   
“You look as if you’d rather nod off. You almost have sitting in that chair.”

Waylon didn’t meet his gaze.   
“You have my permission to rest, if that’s what is holding you back. Don’t pretend for my sake, Waylon.”  
“I’m not doing that. I’m not pretending. I just don’t want to fall asleep when I could be doing other things.”  
Burns sighed. “But that’s not necessary. I don’t require that you fulfil my needs every second. You are clearly exhausted. Moreover, you don’t have to maintain a front, for any reason, around me.” 

“What about all the years I spent keeping how I felt from you?”

“When did I say- no, that’s _not_ what I implied. You’ve misconstrued my words,” Burns scoffed. “I only meant that you shouldn’t pretend to not be tired if you are, do not construct a façade that you think will be more satisfactory to me. Why did you…” He stopped. “I see. You mean you’ve avoided telling me until recently. Why _did_ you wait so long?”

“Are… are you serious?” Waylon stared. _Why does he have to be so obtusely insensitive and oblivious?_ “It took me long enough to get to a place where I could actually tell you how I feel without you ignoring me or changing the subject! You have no idea how difficult it’s been.” He blinked, his eyes wet, turning his head away into the side of the chair, furiously wiping his face with his hand. He hated being so vulnerable in front of Burns.

The springs of the mattress creaked, footfalls sounded. Burns stood in front of him, offering a tissue. His posture was stiff. Hands shaking slightly, Waylon took it, applying it to his eyes.

Burns continued to stand there, his arms crossed, and cleared his throat. “I… I failed to recognise that, indeed, it cannot have been easy for you to relay to me your affections, time again, and be disregarded.”  
Waylon sniffed, sat up against the chair, and faced him. “Thank you. I just… I don’t know. I want this to work. I…” He faltered, regarded Burns, who nodded in agreement.

“Yes…” Burns examined him, “but Waylon, though I admire your tenacity to remain awake, I implore you to rest now.”

“I guess so…” Waylon closed his eyes. “but being tired is not… it’s not important. I can…” He blinked a few times, eyelids heavy, faltering in speech again. He couldn’t discuss anything if he were so fatigued. His closed his eyes again.

  
_The only other person in this meadow was a child, nestled among the tall wildflowers. It was odd that a child would appear in his dream, or that it would take place in a meadow, idyllic though it may have been.  
  
_

_He approached, the child- a boy’s- face was red and tear streaked. He slowly lifted his head to look at Waylon. His eyes were a light grey blue, glinting in the sunlight, and very familiar._

_“Er, hi,” Waylon said, kneeling down, as the boy gave him a wary expression. There was something about him Waylon couldn’t ignore.  
“Where did you come from?”  
“I’m not sure,” Waylon answered truthfully._

_The boy examined him. “What are you doing here?”  
“I… I guess I’m here to find you.”  
“Who are you?”_

_“I’m Waylon. Why were you crying?”_

_“That’s a funny name for a grown-up.” He blinked. “I lost my bear. Can you help me find him, Mr Waylon?”_

_“What’s your bear’s name?” he asked._

_“Bobo.”  
Waylon, for a moment, couldn’t think of anything to respond with. _

_Bobo? Is it that…?_

_“And… what’s your name?” Though he practically knew the answer already._

_The little boy shuffled closer to Waylon, as if to let him in on a secret. “My name’s Charles,” he whispered, then turned his head down and added, “my parents call me Happy.”_

_Oh my god… Waylon stared. Young Burns. Extremely young Burns, before he went to live with his grandfather. He couldn’t have been older than six or seven, a far cry from the real life thirty-something Burns._

_Burns- Charles- rubbed his eye. “Can you help me?”_

_“Well, where did you last see him?”_

_Charles frowned. “I don’t know.”_

_“Let’s look around here, then. I’m sure he’s not far. He probably misses you.”_

_The boy nodded. “Do you really think he’s here?”_

_“Yes. Let’s look.”_

_Charles clung to Waylon’s side as they searched the meadow for a sign of the stuffed bear.  
“I don’t see him anywhere,” he said after some minutes, hanging his head, “We’ll never find him.”_

_“We just haven’t searched enough.”_

_  
  
_

_The open meadow seemed to stretch on forever, surrounded by the forest border of trees and flora that was always out of reach. In front of them were wildflowers and grass, again and again.  
“Maybe we should-” But when he looked down, Charles wasn’t there. Waylon surveyed the landscape. “Monty- Charles?” He went on in different directions, calling the boy’s name. “Where are you?” Had he disappeared from the dream?_

_“Mr Waylon!” The voice was faint. He ran in its direction, making long strides. “Mr Waylon!”_

_There was a conspicuous tree in the meadow, set apart from the forest. Charles, jumping, was trying to reach a branch where a certain stuffed bear was lodged, about three feet above his head. “I can’t reach him.”  
Waylon extended his own hand and grasped the bear, then handed it to Charles, whose face split into a grin as he clutched it to his chest. “Thank you. I thought I had lost him.”_

_“You’re welcome.”_

_“Mr Waylon?”  
“Yes?”  
“You aren’t afraid of water, are you?”_

_Waylon frowned. “What do you mean?”_

_“I don’t have any more use for you,” Charles said, and with every word the atmosphere chilled. The meadow around them decayed, turned to grey ash. “You did what I wanted, and now I don’t need you. You’re just a tool to me.”  
  
_

_A liquid chasm opened beneath his feet, splitting the ground in two as the fissure expanded. Waylon gasped, tried to run. The tree, he could hold on to that. Dead and out of reach. He was powerless. He gripped the side of the earth before he could fall, dug into roots with shaking hands. Cold water permeated his skin and weighed him down as he struggled. He managed to look up again. Where the child Burns had been was the adult Burns, who leered down at him, still holding the bear. “You’re so needy, Waylon,” he said, and his words echoed, “I’ll never care for you the way you do me. I’ll never love you.”  
“Monty,” he gasped, “I don’t- please-”_

_“Good-bye, Waylon.”  
The earth to which he clung crumbled and dissolved, and he lost his resistance to the awaiting depths of dark, dark waters. _

A sensation of falling.

“Waylon?” The voice again, but it held concern rather than scorn.

He exhaled. Opened his eyes and focused. Burns’ bedroom. No meadow, no chasms. He was still sat in the chair. “How… how long was I asleep?”  
Burns perched on the edge of his bed. “A bit over an hour. You seemed disturbed just now, before you woke.”

Waylon sat back on the chair, a hand over his forehead, trying to visualise the dream. “It was just… odd, but...”

“You dreamt something, then? What about?”

“Sir, it wasn’t-”

“Don’t ‘ _sir’_ me now! What was it? It appears to have had a negative impact on you.”

Waylon swallowed. “Do you remember you were telling me about your own dream last night?” 

“Vaguely, yes. Though I’d rather not remember what occurred in it.” He shivered. “If there is one good thing about having been imbibed, it is that I don’t remember well what happened last night _before_ I woke due to my _dream_ , and that I would not like to relive. Even care to forget it, in all its horrible lucidity, pity I still have recollections. What does it have to do with yours?”

“I was… falling,” Waylon said, and clarified, “I was drowning. I… I couldn’t breathe, or do anything, for that matter. I was paralysed. It wasn’t real, of course, but I was still asleep at the time.”  
Burns leaned back, tilting his head. “I see. I suppose that is similar in concept. Was there anything else before that? A funeral, perhaps?” He lifted his head and watched Waylon.

“Not a funeral, no. Actually, it wasn’t anything bad at first.”  
“Mm. Was I included in this?”

“Yes, but…were you… do you assume…”  
“I assume I appear in your dreams a lot of times, yes. Dreams are our thoughts, our desires, fears, after all.”

Waylon scratched the back of his neck. Burns took that for an agreement and continued, “What was I doing?”

“It wasn’t _you_ , exactly,” Waylon answered slowly, “first it was you, but six years old.”

Burns raised an eyebrow. “I find that peculiar. So, what did we do?”

The real-life Bobo the bear hung near the footboard of the bed, Burns’ fingers resting just inches from it. Burns followed his gaze. “What are you looking at?”

Waylon cleared his throat, “In the… dream, there was a meadow, and you, well, _he_ had lost Bobo. So, I helped him look.”

“Bobo? Hm.” Burns’ eyes fixed on the stuffed bear. He picked it up, running his fingers over the worn fur. “I do still have him, after all those years of having lost him.” He gently set the bear aside. “But that’s an odd scenario for your dream. Go on, I don’t have all day.”

“After… we found the bear hanging from a tree branch, that’s when it happened. The ground opened under me. I tried to hold on to something, but I couldn’t for very long. And a moment before I fell, I saw you again, and you appeared like you are now.”  
“Did I say anything to you?”

“Just… stupid things.” Burns’ expression of intrigue invited him to continue, “I don’t remember exactly, just something about me being, er, needy, and how… you don’t care.” He left out the last part.

“About what?”  
“About me.” His voice had dropped. “It’s just stupid, sir.”

Burns looked at him for a while. “Do you really think I don’t give a damn about you at all?”  
“Of course I don’t.”  
“And I only made _one_ comment about not being needy, I didn’t say you were in fact.”  
“I know.”   
Burns nodded. “I can see how you found that sequence disturbing.”   
  


“Yes, well.” Waylon shifted. “It was just a dream, nothing was real. It doesn’t matter.” He glanced at Burns. “So how do you feel now?”

“I still have a fever.”

“Do you want to take another Tylenol or…?” He had noted before that there was a short supply of the possibly useful medicine. He’d either have to get more or ration what was there, depending on the severity of Burns’ state.   
“You’ll have to get me more water.” He held out the glass again. “Perhaps I will take a bath.” When Waylon took it, he added, “And while I take it, you can wash my bedsheets.”

“Do you want me to set up the bath for you?”

Burns frowned. “I can do it myself.” He scoffed. “I’m not a brainless degenerate. I know how to run a bath.”

“Sorry, sir. Just habits.”

“Is my robe in there?”  
“Hanging on its hook. I just washed it. I also restocked your soap because you were running low.”

“I see.” Burns slid himself off the bed and stood.   
“You don’t feel faint at all?” Waylon asked.   
“No. If I need you for some reason, I will let you know.”  
“You want me to wash your sheets?”  
“Yes. That’s what I said. Put the spares on in the meantime.”  
“Alright.”

With a huff of disdain, Burns walked across the floor and into his bathroom, then shut the door. Waylon’s eyes lingered on it before he went about fixing the bedsheets, taking the spares from the linen closet. Then he took the dirtied ones to the laundry room, set a cycle, and returned to the bedroom. From the bathroom, water was running, before being switched off; Burns had figured it out.

Unoccupied, Waylon sat down on a chair and crossed his legs, then uncrossed them, and tapped his fingers on the armrest. Burns’ voice admonished him in his head: _What are you doing, Smithers, twiddling your thumbs?_ He almost rolled his eyes.

For the first time in a while, he had absolutely nothing to do except wait in case Burns needed him. He felt rather unsettled.   
Fifteen minutes later, he had taken to a book laying on a table. A voice barked, startling him from the growing quiet: “Smithers! Get me something to wear!”

Waylon stood immediately. At last engaged in a task, he headed to Burns’ closet and chose a few nondescript pieces appropriate for a lie-in. He knocked at the bathroom door. “Sir?”

The door opened a few inches and Burns stuck his head out, glanced at the clothes, nodded, then snatched them. “You changed my sheets?” His hair was hidden under a towel.

“Yes.”

“Good man.” He promptly shut the door again. Waylon sighed and resumed his spot on the chair until Burns came out, his hair mostly dry, brushed through.

“Do you feel any better?”  
“I would say so, yes. Hot steams and such things are supposed to alleviate fevers and head colds.” He lay back onto the bed and looked up at Waylon. “I’ll take the medicine now.”   
“Oh, right.” 

As he administered the Tylenol and water, the front entrance sensor sounded. Waylon frowned. “We weren’t expecting anyone.”

“No. How did anyone manage to slip into the property? The gate is locked.” Burns raised an eyebrow as to say, ‘ _Isn’t it?’_  
“Yes, it’s locked.”  
“Who is it? People can’t just traipse in as they like.”   
Waylon looked at the camera feed on his phone- a surveillance system was conveniently connected through it as part of the extensive camera system both in Burns’ home and the plant. He tapped on a designated section of the interface to view live footage of the main entrance. There was no mistaking the large, bug-eyed, former safety inspector loitering outside. “It’s… Homer Simpson, sir.”  
“What is _he_ doing here?” Burns took the phone and examined it himself, his lips pursed. The doorbell sounded. “Go find out what he wants before he rings it again.” 

Downstairs, as per Burns’ orders, Waylon met Homer at the door. “Simpson,” he said, “how did you get in here?”

“Well, I came around back. I had to park on the street,” Homer explained.

“You could have buzzed the gate. Though you wouldn’t have been let in.”  
“Exactly. What was I supposed to do? Anyway,” Homer said, “I needed to ask you something.”  
“Why?”

Homer scratched his head. “Well, I wanted to make sure, and this is the only way I can find out… I don’t really trust the tabloids.”

“What are you talking about?” _Tabloids?_

“Yeah, er, I don’t have it with me or anything, I saw it at the store, I didn’t buy it. But there was this thing about you and Mr Burns. You were at a bar last night?”  
Waylon stared, furrowing his brow. “How would you know if we were?”

“There were pictures, I guess. And the whole thing was talking about your relationship- what I want to ask is, are you guys together?”

“ _What?_ ” Were he and Burns _together?_ “… Just… just come in.” Waylon reluctantly ushered Homer into the main foyer and closed the door. He closed his eyes. “There was a tabloid saying we’re a couple? Based on what happened at the bar?” He fumed. Ridiculous, sensationalist tabloid garbage. It sullied any truth.

“Yeah,” Homer said, “So… is it true?”   
“No,” Waylon said vehemently, “no, we are not, and it’s not true.” What was Burns going to think?  
“See? That’s why I wanted to find you and ask.”

“Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

“No, I wanted to ask about my job, too…”

Waylon turned back towards the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Homer asked.

“I need to tell Mr Burns what you told me,” Waylon called, “Don’t touch anything.”

Glancing at him again, Waylon hurried back to Burns’ bedroom. Burns stared when he ran inside. “What-”

“He thinks we’re together.”  
“He thinks we are _what_?” His expression became grave. “Of all the people…”

“He said something about a tabloid, but he came here to confirm if it was true or not. And it’s not important, but he wants to ask about his job, I assume he wants it back.”  
Burns moved off the bed. “Which tabloid? If someone is publishing lies about me…” He glowered.  
“Er… I don’t know, actually. He didn’t say.”  
“How did you answer him?”  
“No. I mean, we’re not actually _together_ , even though…” Waylon gesticulated. “But I told him no.”

“That was for the best.”  
“I know…”  
“Don’t pout, Waylon. That doesn’t invalidate what I told you before.”  
“I’m not-”

“It is good to quash rumours, things could become _messy_ if he had spread lies that he believed. Further, with this apparent _tabloid_ , I do not know what the consequences might entail for us, I expect others have seen and read it by now. Rather quick to churn out the _story_ , they were, it was only last night…” He glanced in a mirror, oval and set into a gilded frame on his wall, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear, smoothing down others, and he lingered there, gazing at himself. After some time, he winced as if in pain, turning away from the glass.

“Is something wrong?” Odd, that the mirror would garner that reaction from Burns, as it seemed to do to Waylon. In fact, all his headaches recently had been around mirrors… but why?

Burns composed himself again. “I don’t know. It is likely nothing. I see no reason why looking at myself would give me pains in my head.”

“I… It’s happened to me, too. Multiple times.”

Burns shrugged. “They are forgettable pains, however, and as I just said, likely nothing to become anxious over.”

“I guess…” He supposed the pain wasn’t horrible, and it did subside quickly, but the situation was peculiar still. Was it simply that they were suddenly sensitive to the glare of mirrors or reflective surfaces? _Maybe it’s a bizarre side-effect of the change,_ Waylon thought, though he didn’t want to share that with Burns, who seemed unconcerned.

Waylon followed Burns, who draped a robe over his shirt and trousers, downstairs. They stopped before coming into the foyer; Homer was pacing in circles. Burns shook his head and walked the rest of the way. Before Homer spoke or had a chance to, Burns said, his arms crossed, “Post-haste, Simpson, I am ill and have pulled away from my rest to quell your _insecurities_. Smithers and I are not engaged in any romantic elopement, no matter what you read in some detestable rag. Get that through your skull, if you would.” He glared.

Homer blinked. “Okay, well, sorry, Mr Burns, if you say so. So, er, I was also wondering if you would consider re-hiring me. That’s why I came here.”

“I’ve been told. I don’t have any reason to re-hire you now, while I am ill and not at the plant. Make another inquiry in some weeks, if you remember.”

Homer sighed.

“Simpson, Mr Burns needs to get back to his rest soon,” Waylon reminded.

Burns tapped his foot. “If that is _all_ …” He coughed. “Smithers, show him out.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Burns turned around, heading towards his bedroom; Waylon pushed Homer towards the door. “Are you sure nothing’s going on between you and him?” Homer asked, out of Burns’ earshot. Waylon didn’t say anything back until he had Homer outside the manor and had opened the gate from the inside so Homer wouldn’t go the way he had come in and skirt said gate.  
“What makes you ask that? You heard what we both said.”

Homer continued, “Well, there was a way Burns looked at you.”  
“What do you mean?”   
Homer groaned. “I don’t know, don’t _you_ know what it means? You looked at _him_ the same way. You should’ve seen yourselves. It was kind of the way Marge looks at me sometimes.” Homer twisted his lip. “Or something.” Then he added, “Even if you aren’t secretly together, you must really like Mr Burns anyway, especially considering he has you do so much.”

Waylon fidgeted with his hands. “Er, yes…” He straightened. “But it’s none of your business, Simpson. Just go home.”

Thinking about what Homer had told him, Waylon went up the stairs, nearly losing his footing as he’d only been concentrating on what Burns’ regard meant. _How was I looking at him? Did I reveal something through my expression, for both him and Homer to see?_

You wear your heart on your sleeve, Burns had said. And what of Burns? Had he worn an expression of yearning towards Waylon?

He frowned. Burns was one to be more subtle, unless he did it unconsciously. Waylon couldn’t _ask_ him about it, despite what understanding they had come to already. He didn’t want to embarrass Burns, who couldn’t yet articulate to Waylon how he felt beyond acknowledging the existence of some attraction.

“Were there any more issues with Simpson?”  
“No. He went home.”

“Ah.” Burns closed his eyes and laid back on the bed. “put something on the Victrola. It’s too quiet.”

Waylon browsed some records, organised beside the phonograph. “Anything in particular?”

“Nothing obnoxiously loud. I am still ill.”

“No jazz, then.” He passed over Sinatra, Dean Martin, Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw.  
“No. No swing, either. I’d rather not be surrounded by overtly jovial instrumentation.”

 _Maybe the Funeral March_ , then, Waylon thought sardonically. He continued to look through Burns’ record collection- at least, the part he kept in his bedroom, putting most of them aside; Count Basie, Django Reinhardt, Benny Goodman, Shostakovich (the latter who Burns had said Waylon resembled somewhat). He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for.

“Oh, for- just put on Tchaikovsky or Handel. You’ve been at it for five minutes,” Burns scolded.

“Yes, sir.”

He found a collection of Tchaikovsky’s piano concertos, which he fit onto the turntable. He moved the arm and needle on top of the record, which began to rotate. Soft music floated through the room.

“Perhaps we will do something tomorrow,” Burns mused, “go on an outing… not today, but tomorrow, if my illness is alleviated enough.”

Waylon nodded, though his mind was fixated on Homer’s question of covert expressions, and he felt trapped, not wanting to ask Burns about it, not able to. “Anywhere in particular?”

“I will think on it. But I want you to find that tabloid, in the meantime. I must see it. I expect you’ll find it in some public dispensary.”

“Now?” Waylon had wanted to go to the store anyway, to buy more antibiotics that Burns was short on, though he didn’t particularly want to leave. “I could go to the pharmacy, I need to get something.”  
“Yes, go now, be inconspicuous; do not draw attention to yourself or any mention of me.”

“Will you be alright?”  
“I will be _fine_ ,” Burns insisted, rolling his eyes, “I can take care of myself for the time you are out. I am not so helpless. Look for the tabloid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	8. Part Seven: Undesirable outings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waylon heads to the pharmacy for Burns' medicine and tries to find the article, anxious about its contents regarding himself and Burns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter eight/part seven... Waylon is very busy.

After that conversation, Waylon had headed out to the pharmacy downtown, wanting to take no longer than an hour, no matter what Burns had said. It took him longer than he would have liked to get there.

The automatic doors slid open as he walked inside, thinking ahead to finding what he needed and getting back to the manor.

Scanning one of the aisles, Waylon found what he needed and went to the checkout, where he had to stand in line behind two others. When the woman in the front of the line finished totalling her absurd amount of toilet paper and paper towels, he stepped forward but stopped when he noticed what the man in front of him was reading. Some local rag, for sure, he thought it was the _Springfield Enquirer_ , a garbage publication. But he thought he saw Burns’ name in the type. Could it be the article Homer had spoken of?

He tried to read it over the man’s shoulder, to see the title, but the man flipped the page, and there was a photograph, though slightly grainy, of Burns in that bar, drunk.

How had something that had just happened the night before made this week’s issue of the Enquirer? Then again, it was a hastily put together thing that would without a doubt cling to some sensationalist nonsense one night before the issue came out, if they thought it would make them money.

He desperately wanted to ask the man to borrow the magazine but wondered if he would be recognised. Was there also a picture of him? And most importantly, what was the article actually about? Just his and Burns’ apparent romance?

At the register, he set what he had come there for on the counter, and then took every copy of the _Enquirer_ from the rack.

The clerk raised an eyebrow. “You know, people don’t usually buy six copies of anything. You have a club or something?”

“Not exactly.” Waylon handed them his card, not wanting to have a trivial conversation. He hastened to leave, then unlocked the car, dumped the tabloids on the passenger seat, and picked up a copy resting on top of the pile. He would probably burn the rest, though that wouldn’t make up for the other copies that had circulated around town by now. 

He sat in the car in a far corner of the parking lot and looked at the magazine cover. There near the bottom left, a caption: _Has Monty Burns finally found love? P. 12.  
_ Waylon wanted to laugh at the absolute stupidity of the title. And he did- though it didn’t diminish his growing anger. The audacity.

What right did they have to make an article about Burns, who could sue the Enquirer and effectively put them out of business with a wave of his hand, if he wished? He knew that Burns was technically a public figure, but the indecency and absurdity disgusted him.   
He opened the thing and flipped to page 12, not caring if he creased or tore any previous pages in his haste.   
It wasn’t a major article, so it didn’t get as much space as those would; it got the bottom half of a page, but any space devoted to it was too much. Waylon read the title several times. _The domestic life of Springfield’s nuclear billionaire: C. M. Burns spotted at Galley Reel bar with partner(?)_

He looked at the next page for the picture. Some lowlife had snapped a picture of Burns while he was drunk. And on the previous page with the ‘article’, there was a small picture of him, dragging Burns out of the bar. The caption read: _Waylon Smithers, sources confirm_. So, someone at the bar had recognised him, or had seen the picture before publication. The _Enquirer_ could churn itself out very quickly; this had just happened the night before.

Though his vision was blurred, and his hands shook, he read some of the article. The _Enquirer_ made mention of the man in the orange vest who had taken Burns to be Waylon’s boyfriend.

**The Domestic Life of Springfield’s Nuclear Billionaire:** _C. M. Burns Spotted at Galley Reel Bar with Partner(?)_

Last night at Galley Reel, a popular joint downtown, who showed up but C. M. Burns! The young energy mogul was not alone, either; he seemed to be accompanied by his apparent assistant, Waylon Smithers, see photo. Things got out of hand for the two as Mr Burns became drunk- yes, he was actually drunk- and Mr Smithers was forced to take him out of the bar for his disturbances to the crowd.

Several patrons gave their testimonies of their experiences. One patron, who wishes to remain anonymous, told us that they didn’t know who neither Burns nor Smithers were until we talked to them, but they gave us some interesting info. Could this be a sign of Burns’ hidden, unprecedented, gay life?

Anonymous: So I heard the one guy, who wore glasses, pleading with the drunk one, and I just assumed they were a couple, by how they talked to one another, and so I said to him, ‘Your boyfriend’s really drunk, you should take him home’. And he said he was trying to. So I guess I was right. Otherwise he would’ve told me off, I guess.  
Springfield Enquirer: You know that was Mr Burns and his assistant?  
A: Who?  
SE: The owner of the nuclear plant.

A: Really? Oh, no, I didn’t. 

Mr Smithers was identified by some other first-hand witnesses. More people, of course, instantly recognised Mr Burns.

We also talked with Roy, who was nearby to witness Mr Burns’ unusual degradation.

SE: So you saw everything?

Roy: I came into the bar pretty early on. Burns was drinking a lot, yeah, but I didn’t know what would happen, I mean, I didn’t want to ask him, because who just talks to the guy? He can be kind of… intimidating.  
SE: Would you say for most people he’s mysterious?  
Roy: Yeah, I guess so.

SE: And then?  
Roy: Then things got weird and he decided to lay down across some stools. I’m like, okay, you own like half the town, whatever, it was just weird. He got sunglasses from someone too. Then the guy he was with, I think Burns called him Smithers, I think that’s his assistant, he’s always trailing behind Burns in public-

SE: Yes, someone else recognised him, too.

Roy: So they started talking, Smithers said they had to leave, and then he had to pick up Burns to drag him outside. I don’t care that much, but- I mean, come on, it was Burns.

Another exchange with Ann, who told us her cousin worked for the plant:

Ann: So Waylon Smithers, he’s gay, I’m pretty sure.

SE: And what did you think of Mr Smithers’ response to Anonymous’ remark?   
Ann: Well, that’s what I mean, that truly confirms it, he and Burns have had a very close relationship over the years anyway… My cousin, who works for Burns, she doesn’t talk about him; she doesn’t see any upper management in her day-to-day … but there’s been rumours about him and Smithers, they go everywhere together. Of course, that doesn’t mean anything on its own, but… you know. 

SE: So what about Burns? Is that surprising?  
Ann: I have no idea, I suppose so, yeah, but hasn’t he turned down a lot of marriage proposals? Isn’t he known for that? Maybe he didn’t want to be with a woman.

It was pure sensationalism with little truth. Though Waylon had made progress with Burns in their relationship, more than he’d thought he would ever be able to, that wasn’t what the article was insinuating. Thanks to it, soon anyone who read it would think there was something going on. And if there were, it was not in the way they said so raunchily. And the consequences… the discussion about Burns’ ‘ _unprecedented gay life’_ \- why did it matter so much to these people, holding opinions that had no validity. Waylon crumpled the tabloid and started the car. 

Burns was going to be furious. 

“Is that the _Springfield Enquirer_?” Burns wrinkled his nose.

“I found the article. Look at the bottom left corner of the cover.” Waylon shoved the thing at him.   
Frowning, Burns shifted his gaze about the cover page, and then he stopped, slowly mouthing the words. His face drained of colour. He tore open the pages until he found the article, just as Waylon had done earlier. His hands clenched the paper tighter as he read, his expression growing darker. He found the photograph on the next page, and his fingernails dug into the paper, ripping it apart.

“It is as Simpson said- But what is this- why do they discuss my _unprecedented gay life_? What…” For a moment he stared, then it seemed to dawn on him what that really meant. His voice was a controlled calm that still wavered.

“Of all the things to print about me- _oh_ …” Burns seethed. “Too many people read the _Enquirer_. I expect the information has already been documented. At the least, the article Eloise wrote on me was deleted, as we had discovered, though it was not unflattering.” Before Waylon could respond, he continued, “But in relation to this new _article_ , surely by now my reputation is tarnished.”

“You don’t have to necessarily acknowledge it. It’s just the Enquirer.”  
“What will the employees think? They will lose all respect and fear for me. I will not be able to keep them in line. My associates will no longer convene with me.”

“Not everyone will think that way. And… at least Homer asked us to confirm, instead of spreading it around.”  
“I don’t care. It’s a reprehensible bit of text masquerading as an article.” Looking at Waylon, he said, “And in regard to you and myself… _I_ do not consider myself a homosexual. I still have affinity for the opposite sex.”   
“You could be bisexual,” Waylon said. “That exists.”   
“I’ve heard the term in passing. But I have been attracted to many different women- I have felt drawn to _some_ men _,_ but not as intensely, not before- ” He stopped. “But even with the women as well as these other, fewer, men, all with whom I’ve had intimacy, it felt different than…”  
“Than what?”

“What do you think?” Burns turned his head away, red colouring his face. 

Waylon considered bringing up what Homer had said regarding their expressions, but didn’t. Burns may feel like Waylon was patronising him if he did. Before he could speak, Burns went on.

“ _You_ are different. That is what I meant. Your amount of… authentic devotion and _care_ towards me, whether the intent be platonic or _romantic,_ is unprecedented compared to the others’, though you know which lines you oughtn’t cross.”

Waylon nodded, shifting somewhat uncomfortably. While he agreed, he didn’t know exactly where Burns was going with this. Or if he would like its conclusion.

“I still don’t have a name for what I feel towards you. Smithers…” He sighed, “When this fever has passed, I want to- test something.”  
“What?”  
“Our… physical compatibility, if you would, of you and I.”

“Oh?” Waylon cleared his throat. “What do you mean?” Although he had some idea.

“If our - _ahem_ \- relationship would work in that intimate sense.”  
“Alright… but it shouldn’t be forced,” Waylon said. If he were to have something more with Burns, it would be authentic.

“I’m aware.”

Again, he thought of what Homer had told him, of the way in which Burns had apparently looked at him. “Actually, there was something Homer Simpson told me, sir.”  
Burns raised his eyebrows. “What? What does anything _he_ told you have to do with this?”  
Waylon recounted to him what Homer had revealed about their similar expressions, how each had apparently been eyeing the other.

“That sounds ridiculous,” Burns scoffed. “Don’t take what that man says seriously, Smithers. What does that mean? I was looking at you? Of course, I looked at you, does that mean anything? I wouldn’t think so.”

“ He said it was like how Marge looks at him sometimes.”  
“And?”  
Waylon almost rolled his eyes. “If we were looking at each other in that way,” he said, “then…”

He didn’t want to spell it out to Burns. It sounded stupid. But the point, he felt, still had some merit.

If Burns thought or recognised this, he was masking it with contempt. “So, he thinks I was looking at you with infatuation, or whatever _your_ expression was? Is that what you mean? I would hope I wouldn’t display my feelings so transparently.”

“I don’t… Monty, you know how I feel about you.” He was growing tired of their roundabout conversations. “It’s not important, what Homer said. Forget I said anything.”

“Of course, it’s not important.” Burns shifted on the bed. “Don’t dwell on my facial expressions. Go throw out that _thing_ ,” he said then, “somewhere else.” Waylon looked down at the remains of the magazine and nodded. He made to leave the room and found the recycling bin downstairs, depositing the garbage. Again, he was at an odd point with Burns. Would it always go this way, where they never finished anything, never came to a full understanding? He glared down at the inside of the bin. Who had written that article? And who had thought it would be a good idea to print?   
  


He sighed and headed back upstairs. As he reached Burns’ room, there were retching noises. Waylon hadn’t thought he would vomit again, had assumed that phase was passed.

Inside, Burns lifted his head when he saw Waylon, his eyes red and watering. “I suppose this is what came of the eggs,” he said, and coughed.

“How do you feel now?” Waylon asked, carefully taking the bin Burns had used to dispose of it.   
Burns collapsed back onto the bed and closed his eyes. “Not as well as I had thought.”   
“Should I get anything?”

“Medicine, I suppose. Water. Then I think I will rest. Close the blinds and turn the lamp and the Victrola off.”

When Waylon came back with the medicine and water, Burns said, his eyes half closed, that he could take a break while he (Burns) was resting. “There must be something else you can do for a while… Investigate the article. I want to know who wrote it. Pity it doesn’t say.”  
“I’ll start looking.”  
“I’ll let you know if I require you urgently,” Burns said, and pointed lazily to his mobile phone.

“Alright, sir.”

He left, shutting the door quietly behind him, then stared at the hallway in front of him. He looked at the time. Already late afternoon, and he felt as if he had gotten nowhere with Burns. Instead he was being handed off to investigate the _Enquirer,_ though he did want to find out who was behind its unfortunate, horrendous ‘article’. He felt somewhat empty all the same.

His exit was quiet, though his feet made too much noise. In the car, he glared at the other five copies of the _Enquirer_ that were still there. He decided to check out the offices of the magazine. The credits inside said magazine listed their editorial office location, so he decided to go there first, hoping to find anything of substance.

  
He was surprised the offices of the _Enquirer_ even had a receptionist. She blinked at him.

“Can I help you?” 

“I need to know who wrote an article for the most recent issue,” he said.

“Well, I can’t help you with that. You don’t have an appointment with anyone?”  
“No. Is there someone who could tell me?”  
“What’s your name?”

“Wa- Watson… Smith.” He wanted to remain un-associated from the article for as long as he could keep it up.

She was looking at the computer. “I can get you in with the assistant editor in chief if you want. I don’t know for how long, but at least maybe fifteen, twenty minutes.”  
Waylon nodded. “Yes, do that.”

She picked up the phone and dialled whom he assumed was the assistant editor in chief. “Mr Corbyn, there’s a Mr Smith here to see you. He has a question about this week’s issue. Yes.” She hung up. “You can go in there. Third door on the left.” She pointed to the hallway.

“Thank you.”

The door the receptionist had indicated read ‘Josh Corbyn’, and under that listed his title. Waylon had almost gone out with a Josh once. It hadn’t gone well.

He knocked before being admitted and saw a small man lounging in a swivel chair behind a desk. The office itself was small as well and seemed to have many things crammed into its space.

“Yes?”  
Waylon coughed. “Er, the receptionist sent me here.”  
The other man nodded. “Oh, you’re Watson Smith. Josh Corbyn.” He stood up and leaned across the desk, stuck out his hand. Waylon shook it tentatively, wondering if he could have chosen a better alias. “So, what can I do you for? Something about the new issue?”

Waylon took out the copy he had brought in. “I wanted to know who wrote this article,” he said, and pointed it out to Josh, who squinted at it.

“That actually made it? God, I told them it wasn’t going to happen…” It took Waylon a second to remember Josh was only the assistant editor in chief. “But what do I know, I’m just the _assistant_.” He sighed and leaned back in the chair. “Jesus, the last thing we want is to get someone like Burns on the wrong side. But they said he wouldn’t care, and that he doesn’t read the Enquirer. Well, maybe he will see it, _Paul_ , and we’ll have a lawsuit ‘cause we pissed off a rich guy.” He stared into space and then looked back at Waylon.

“But you don’t want to hear all that. But nothing much happens, when I’m here, anyway. Those numbskulls chortling as they type up these shitshows of articles are the bane of my existence. And I have to read them. You know, I used to work for the _Chicago Tribune_. Real stuff. Could I see that?” He gestured to the magazine; Waylon handed it to him and waited while he looked at it. 

“This sounds like Tim’s work. Or Ryan’s. More likely Tim’s. Neither of them are here right now, though. A lot of them work from home for most of the week.” Josh shrugged. “Well, Mr Smith… We don’t usually get regular people coming in here. Or sometimes the people who are supposed to work here, sometimes they don’t come.”  
  


Waylon was learning more about the work environment of the Enquirer than he thought he needed to. He wanted to do something about this Tim person, but he would need to continue lying or reveal his identity when asked why he needed information on Tim. Doing the latter might make Josh wary, Waylon being a representative of Burns. A representative to whom he had told a lucrative story of an incompetent business.

“Is there anything else? I believe it was Tim who wrote it, Tim Dall. Odd guy. You need to ask him something about this article?”

“Yes.”  
“What do you want to know, anyway? You don’t seem the type to read the Enquirer.”

“Actually,” Waylon said, thinking of another lie, “I know someone who knows Mr Burns. I-”

“Burns has seen the article?” Josh bit his lip. “Judging by what was written, it’s not very flattering.”

“Er… No, he hasn’t, but I want to talk to this Tim about it before he does see it. My… friend is out of the country right now. I came instead.”  
“I don’t really think that’s necessary. Believe me, Tim shouldn’t have written that. But he wasn’t the one who actually approved the article. _That_ would have been Paul. My boss. So… if you want to talk to someone, you can say something to Paul. Can’t guarantee he’ll do anything. Sometimes it’s like talking to a brick wall. I don’t know why I still put up with this crap.”

“Paul is the editor in chief?”

“Yes. Somehow. But he left this morning for a vacation. He’ll be back next Monday. Today’s what, Tuesday?”

“Yes.”

“But I’ll tell you, it’s not going to do a lot. He doesn’t think it matters. And usually it doesn’t. But Springfield blows things out of proportion. And it’ll sell. It’s always all about money. Well, did Paul remember that Burns could have us shut down if he wanted?” Josh shook his head. “Or something worse.” He looked at Waylon. “Then again, it could be a nonissue. Probably will be, unless Burns sees it and decides to do something. But better safe than sorry.”

 _Yes, especially because he’s already seen and read it._ “Next Monday? He’ll be here if I come back?”  
“Nine to five, yes. I think it’s a waste of time, but you can try.” He leaned back in his swivel chair, stretching. “Is there anything else?”

“No. Thank you.”  
“No problem. You can go out the way you came in. Nice talking to you, Mr Smith. Good luck.”

“Thanks.” And he left the office and retraced his steps into the reception area, then walked into the parking lot, started the car. He wanted to share what he had learned with Burns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	9. Part Eight: Conflicts in Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waylon informs Burns of his visit to the Enquirer. A thunderstorm approaches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I wanted this to be up earlier, but I didn't finalise it until now. I like how this chapter came out, and I hope you do too.

“That office, if one could call it such, sounds as dysfunctional as I would have thought,” Burns said of the _Enquirer_ ’s work environment after Waylon had informed him of the news, “and you’ll return… Monday? I’d prefer it to be earlier, but very well…”  
“That’s when the editor in chief is supposed to be there, Paul. I could get some answers from him.”

“Do you have any idea who this ‘Tim Dall’ is?”  
“No, sir. I’ll find out.”  
“See that you do. If he did indeed write that… _article_ …” Burns scowled.   
“I understand.”

“Oh,” Burns continued, “It had slipped my memory, but there is an event to which I was invited, weeks ago, before the… change. I remembered it after I read that egregious article, as I was considering what my associates might think of me in light of it, if they happened to read it themselves. However, I ought to attend. It is in a few days, this weekend, in fact, so any fever I have now should be gone.”

“What sort of event is it?”

“They all start to blur together into a homogenous social calling, after so many. I think it’s a fundraiser of some kind, a gala… it’s just outside of Springfield, on the lake, some socialite’s mansion.”  
“Do you, er, want me to come with you?”

Burns raised an eyebrow. “Were you making other plans?”  
“No, I just didn’t want to assume…” Waylon twisted his shirt, flustered.  
“So you say.”

“But,” Waylon said, gathering his bearings, “I also didn’t know if you wanted me to come, because of the article. I thought you might not want to go yourself, either.”

“I think it could reflect worse upon me if I am not there at all. I can put to rest the wild rumours they may have concocted about us, and your presence will assist in quelling them.” He looked up at Waylon, who stood beside the bed. “Do you agree?”

“I suppose so.”

Throughout the rest of the day, the sky became grey, turning darker; the forecast called for severe thunderstorms. Rain fell, scouring the earth in constant, pouring sheets of water, accompanied by winds that thrashed the trees, howling in its aerial path. Day turned to night, grey to black, and a thunderstorm began. They’d eaten dinner in Burns’ room, listening to the increasing cacophony of the weather.   
Now, well after the meal had ended, the wind and thunder seemed to be in a competition of sorts, vying for which could be loudest. It was about 22h, and Burns had changed into his nightclothes already. Settled in his bed, he shivered as the weather clashed amongst itself outside. “Smithers, get me another blanket.”  
Waylon carried in a blanket from the closet and handed it to Burns, who seized it and hastily draped it over himself, atop the duvet.

“Do you need anything else before you go to sleep?” Waylon asked, “medicine? Water?”

Burns covered his mouth with a hand, yawning. “No.”

“Okay, then, let me know if you do… Goodnight, sir.”

“Yes…” Burns reached over and turned off his lamp as Waylon reached the door, “goodnight.”

Waylon had been ready, in theory, to go to sleep himself, but found it a difficult prospect to realize. The storm kept him awake, rather than lulling him into unconsciousness with a dull patter of rain. This one was too massive, and too sporadic, encroaching. He felt as if, at any given moment, a tree would crash through the window, or even a wall. He twisted in the sheets, not able to stay in one position for long. 

He wished, laying there on his side, pressed against the pillow and mattress, that he were beside Burns instead, where he wouldn’t be alone. In the guest room, unable to fall asleep, the storm irate, he felt isolated, removed from reality, in some perpetual, chaotic, darkness. Sounds of the thunder and wind enveloped him. Lightning brought false flashes of light that flickered in front of the window. Every time that the thunder slowed its tirade and he became blissfully used to its absence, a new, energised peal shook the placidity, jumpstarting his heart. And if he were reacting this way, how was Burns handling it?

Exhausted as he was, Waylon rose none too gracefully and left the room to go to Burns’, the wooden floor underneath the rugs creaking in the hall. Pushing open the already ajar door, he crossed the threshold. “Sir?” he whispered.

“…Smithers?” came Burns’ voice as the lamp switched on, “what’re you doing?” Apparently Burns hadn’t been able to sleep, either.

“I wanted to check on you. Since the storm is really loud, and it could be dangerous, I was…”

A loud, low rumble of thunder drew across them, loud as the winds, drowning out the rainfall and any thought. Burns was frozen, the covers drawn nearly to his chin.   
“I am- I don’t need you,” he managed, “What did you think- I’m _not_ afraid of-”

Waylon furrowed his brow. “I didn’t say that you were…”

A louder clap shook the room, and Burns folded in on himself, clutching his bear. “I am not afraid, but it is cacophonous, I feel the house will collapse with the next wave… It chills me, I can’t escape it, I cannot fall asleep, either…” He exhaled shakily. “You need not ameliorate me, I am fine.”

Waylon approached the bed. “No, you’re not. But it’s not…”

“How dare- I am better than that, I mustn’t quake before a storm,” Burns hissed.

Yet more thunder sounded, louder still; Waylon thought the house might really collapse. He felt a hand around his wrist, Burns’. His nails dug into Waylon’s skin. Burns’ eyes were wide, his pupils dilated in the concentrated light of the lamp.

“Waylon?” His voice quavered softly.

“Yes?”

“Stay… stay here.” He said, quieter, “I’d rather have you here than… be alone.” His gaze darted from Waylon, his cheeks coloured. 

“I understand.” 

Burns waved his hand to the empty half of the bed behind him. “There.”

Waylon knotted his hands. “Are you sure? I…”  
“Just lay down,” Burns insisted, yawning.

Waylon wasn’t about to argue, though Burns’ proposition had taken him aback. He gingerly climbed into the other end, feeling as if he were intruding, the surface momentarily cold from lack of use. He pulled up the sheet and duvet carefully, not wanting to take any from Burns, who next to him turned the lamp off. Burns readjusted the blankets around himself, almost burrowing under. To Waylon he spoke in a whisper, barely audible. “Come nearer. It does little good for me if you’re all the way over there.”

Waylon shuffled towards him, wondering what the boundaries were. They weren’t _together_ , technically; they were in an in-between, he supposed. Each knew how the other felt, but neither had acted. Waylon didn’t want to get his hopes up that they would go further. Burns was still hesitant, uncertain. 

Reaching out his hand, he accidentally brushed against Burns’ back, eliciting a quiet gasp.

“Sorry.” He withdrew the hand, not wanting to seem or be invasive.

“Your hand is warm,” Burns said, turning on his other side, now facing Waylon. “I…

A fourth peal of thunder, yet more wind. Burns’ hands gripped his. He had shifted over to Waylon, closer. His heartbeat reverberated in Waylon’s eardrums, and Waylon wondered if Burns could too hear his. 

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Burns muttered. Waylon waited. He didn’t know where Burns would go, if he would move away, or else lean into their contact. Burns’ fingers fluttered between his in their shared grasp, as if he were considering what to do.

He released his hands at last, and Waylon thought that was the end. But Burns spoke again. “Come here, closer to me…”

“Hm?”

“Your arms, Waylon… It’s cold, and the covers alone aren’t sufficient. Make yourself useful.”

“ _What_?”

“Are you deaf? Your _arms_ , around me.” He shifted onto his other side again.

Waylon swallowed, shivering, but tried to relax himself. He lined his body along Burns’, leaving some room, and reached his arms around Burns’ slender frame, loosely, feeling awkward, as if he were doing the wrong thing, that Burns would regret asking him to do this.

“Is this what you…”

“That will do. Stay like you are.” Burns sighed, and yawned. “Goodnight, Waylon.”  
“Goodnight,” Waylon repeated, eyelids heavy, closing.

The thunder became not more than a dull rumble as he fell asleep next to Burns.

Wednesday morning brought a tranquil aftermath to the night’s storm; sun filtered through the room and into his vision through the window. Burns’ head was tilted to the side, hair spilling over his pillow and touching Waylon’s face. Waylon tentatively felt his forehead for fever. If he had been cold last night, he certainly wasn’t now. He was perspiring, be it not as severely as before. Frowning, Waylon slid from bed and turned on the fans again. He peeled down some of the sheets covering Burns, who shifted, his brow drawn.   
“Monty?” But it seemed he was still asleep.

Waiting for him to wake, Waylon took Burns’ glass of water from the other day and washed it out, then refilled it. He sat in a chair, tapping his fingers and feet, after a while becoming lost in thought. A groan from Burns made him stand and go to the nearby bed.

Burns blinked, shielding his face from the light. “Where did you go?”

“I was just in that chair.” Waylon pointed.

“Why?”

“Well, when I woke up, you were very warm, from your fever, so I brought in the fan and pulled the sheets down. Then I refilled your water.”

“And why did you not lay down again? You’re still in your nightclothes.”

“I… I don’t know. I guess I wanted to give you space.”

Though Burns had admitted to some feelings for him, Waylon was sceptical, cautious. They’d already gone for so long without furthering their relationship. Now that they seemed to have gotten somewhere, Waylon didn’t want to jeopardise anything by accidentally doing or saying the wrong thing. But perhaps he already had. Uncertainty would be the end of him.

The night had been intimate. It hadn’t been _necessary_ that Waylon stay in bed with Burns overnight, nor hold him. If he had really wanted to be warmer, he could have asked for more blankets, and Waylon would have retrieved them. What was it Burns wanted from him, exactly? To be ‘together’, in a truer sense?

“I see.” Burns almost seemed disappointed, glancing down. “But, yes, that was wise of you, to prioritise my needs.”

“Er. Yes.” Waylon clasped his hands behind his back. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

“No. We shall have breakfast shortly. Stay here. Sit back down, if you wish.”

“Alright…” He re-settled into the chair. “Er… which day is that fundraiser gala? You said it was this weekend.”  
“Yes… I believe it is Saturday, though you may wish to consult the invitation- I recall leaving it in the roll-top desk in the green study. It also contained the address of the host, so it would be prudent, actually, for you to retrieve.”

“I’ll go look. You don’t know of any emails about it, that would have the same information?”

“Not that I am aware of. It only circulated via exclusive physical invitation. Otherwise there would abound unwanted advertisement, if it were blasted upon the inter-webs.”

The ‘green’ study was one of many found throughout the manor; this one was identified by green walls, but otherwise it deviated from the colour.

Waylon pulled open the rolled upper portion of the desk, revealing a shelf on which lay papers interlaced with envelopes. A larger envelope, sat atop others, drew Waylon’s attention. The envelope’s texture was more akin to watercolour paper or canvas, minute fibres ridged. On it in ink was written the manor’s address and in the upper-left corner an unfamiliar one, from an M Lannister. Burns’ penknife had already punctured the seal.

Waylon slid out a card, its lack of outer decoration aside from one simple pattern created an ambiguous atmosphere. He flipped to the inside. The utilitarian theme continued, displaying only pertinent information. The fundraiser gala was indeed on Saturday; it would include an auction.

An additional slip of paper listed a brief inventory of the types of items that would be auctioned. Waylon placed the paper back into the envelope and took it back with him to Burns’ bedroom, making a stop to change his clothes.

“Yes, that’s it. This ‘Lannister’, I am not too familiar with, have you heard of him? Or her, I suppose.”  
“I don’t think so…”

“Never mind; what we spoke of before- the article- I am intent on resolving that.”

“Alright, that’s fine.” Reflecting on the statement, perhaps it was not fine, since he didn’t know what ‘resolving’ the possible article dispute would look like, or if it would go badly for him and Burns.

“Hm…” Burns held aloft the smaller paper now. “ ‘The categories of the auction,” he read aloud, “will include select paintings, rare books, furniture pieces, jewellery and apparel, ephemera…’ I will have to wait to see if anything is to my liking, they do not provide specifics…” He let the paper flutter onto his nightstand. Waylon slid it into the envelope again.

Breakfast was delivered to them shortly; Burns must have ordered it while Waylon was retrieving the invitation and getting dressed. Oatmeal, with cream, cinnamon, and fruit; hot tea.

“You’ve hardly touched your porridge- you’re not coming down with a fever as well?” Burns asked, not taking more than a small spoonful of oatmeal at a time, himself.

Waylon bit into a tart strawberry. “No, I feel fine.” Rather, he was preoccupied with thoughts of earlier. What would have happened if he had just stayed in bed, or returned to it; how might Burns have reacted differently? But more importantly, what had been Burns’ thought last night?

He didn’t want to ask Burns directly, didn’t want to push him. But he wondered. They would have to confront it at some point, or else skirt around it; the latter option was not viable.   
“How do you feel?” he asked, making a point of stirring his oatmeal around, “If you’re sick, you shouldn’t be worried about going to the event.”

“Do you not want me to go? It is Wednesday, the gala is not until Saturday. I don’t believe I’ll still have such a fever by then- and since the days past, my health has improved.” Burns drank his tea. “Or is it that you don’t want to go?”

“No, we can go, I’ll come with you. But I’m serious, Monty-”

“Will you stop? I won’t go and brazenly cavort about at the gala if I do feel so ill.”

“No, right- sorry.”   
Burns shook his head. “If you aren’t ill, you certainly have something plaguing your mind. But you always do, don’t you. Mm…” He put aside his breakfast, gazing outside. “You and I both ought to take a walk.”  
The sun was still a bright glare through the window. “Now?”

“Yes, if you’re willing. It is stifling in here. But I won’t go out in these,” Burns said, his hand towards his nightclothes. He dropped the hand and moved from the bed, went to his closet, returned wearing a different outfit, one lightweight. He nodded to Waylon.

Waylon found they were once again in the gardens, though circumstances had changed since that evening they’d taken a run. He inhaled the air, exhaled, in the mid-morning.   
Their pace was unhurried, quiet; Burns walked beside him, eyes tired, fever still evident, but not so conspicuous. Still, Waylon glanced at him often, to reaffirm that he hadn’t yet collapsed onto the ground.

They continued on through the multicoloured promenade until a hand seized his; Burns had stopped.

“Monty? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I feel a bit light in the head.” Burns shrugged. “Let’s go on.” He didn’t release Waylon’s hand, but resumed walking, and so Waylon followed, more confused than he’d been earlier. Was it simply that Burns wanted to keep from fainting? Yes, but was it also because he _wanted_ to hold Waylon’s hand? After last night…

Was Burns’ plan to be as clandestine as possible in his contact with Waylon, making excuses, besides any desire, to initiate that contact?

He had to bring it up in their conversations, soon. But for now he didn’t want to ruin the moment between them, and so kept his hand wrapped within Burns’.

Burns spent much of the remainder of the day resting. Waylon couldn’t find time for meaningful conversation, or perhaps he wasn’t ready, though he thought, certainly, he should have been. Nor did Burns mention anything, not that he would.

Burns declared he felt better the next morning. His temperature had gone down, but Waylon was still wary of possible fever developments. It was now Thursday. Burns’ next priority was his attire for the gala, which he addressed sometime after breakfast.

“What shall I wear?” Burns surveyed his wealth of clothing. “Something traditional, yet not boring… how quaint… hm.” His eyes flicked to Waylon, critical. “Do you have an opinion, Smithers? Or…”

“Er… I guess you wouldn’t want to call attention to yourself? More than usual-”

“Due to the erroneous article’s circulation? You are correct, I don’t wish to solicit unwanted attention in addition and worsen the… go away, wait outside, will you?”

Waylon slipped out from the closet doors back into Burns’ bedroom, sat himself and waited. His mind wandered and he thought about the upcoming event. He’d accompanied Burns to many a similar premise, but that was before the change. Would this be any different?

“Ahem.” 

Waylon lifted his head. Burns had changed into a suit he had probably worn before- a double-breasted tailcoat of black silk, white waistcoat, white gloves. “You pull off that look well, sir. Very elegant.”

Burns looked at Waylon and then down at himself, frowning. “So you say,” he murmured cryptically. “Yes, but I find it lacking. Perhaps I shouldn’t wear these.” He pulled the gloves off. “Younger men don’t wear gloves, or even hats for that matter, at these sorts of functions nowadays, do they? I may appear too old-fashioned.”

“I think some still do… but it doesn’t matter. You can wear gloves if you want to.”

“I don’t think I will, this time,” Burns conceded, laying the gloves down. “What will you wear?”

“Oh… just a suit of some kind- I’ll look later. Is that what you’re going with?” Waylon gestured to the outfit Burns wore.

“Likely, yes. It is socially acceptable.” 

Waylon sighed. “What I said before, about not wanting to call attention to yourself, I shouldn’t have said that; you should wear what you want, I was worried that you would get unwanted attention, though.” 

“I understand your intention. Here I must be prudent in what I do, and be aware of my position.” 

The article, its implications. Waylon closed his eyes, then asked, “What… what would happen, if we were together- and they knew? What would actually happen?”

For whatever reason, Burns scowled at him. “Oh, but we aren’t truly in a… relationship, you and I, dear Waylon, are we…?” He shrugged out of his tailcoat and waistcoat, undid a few buttons of his shirt underneath, his face downcast. “I suppose some of the people with whom I do transactions would terminate our business relations.”

 _So he doesn’t think we’re… What has he been doing, what does he want?_ The thunderstorm, the walk in the garden… “Then we could find replacements. The world can move on without people who wouldn’t accept you.”

“Would it be so simple as you say to oust them?”

“I don’t know for sure. But people who wouldn’t accept you or respect you don’t deserve to do business with you in the first place.”  
“But-” Burns huffed, his expression conflicted, frustrated, “that hasn’t come to pass, yet.”

“Yet?”

Burns’ face flushed, then he glowered. “The gall. You know… you’re aware of my inclinations.” He collapsed onto a chair. “Even though, frankly, Waylon,” he said, his tone curt, “ _you_ don’t seem interested, and I-”  
Now. They were getting somewhere, though Burns seemed unhappy. “What do you mean?”

Burns lifted his head. “So it’s _now_ you wish to speak about this, hm?” He leaned back again, closing his eyes. “I am not- clearly, I cannot be what you want. I have tried-”

Waylon shook his head, though Burns couldn’t see. “That’s not true, Monty, at all.”

“Isn’t it? You’ve been waiting so long- and now, you haven’t-”

“I can wait.”  
Burns sat up on the chair. “Can you?” he said scornfully, “Or have I taken too long, and now you’ve become disinterested?”

Was Burns trying to provoke him? “What? I don’t want to force-”

“Idiot,” Burns muttered, “Listen to me.” He leaned forward, his gaze intense and vaguely angry. “Do you not remember what I said before? I would be willing to see if we could be intimate, after I had recovered. What I have done, though not sufficiently alleviated, I-” 

Waylon stared. “So what you did- the thunderstorm on Tuesday, and then yesterday outside. I don’t… _that’s_ what you were doing? _Experimenting_?”

Burns glared, huffed. “Yes, instances where I’ve- I’ve tried to find out if I enjoy physical contact with you-”

“And- you liked it?”  
Burns threw his hand up, indignant. “Must I spell it out? I expected you to say something. Are you not still pining after me- this? Are you somehow no longer interested? You seemed so at the time, or was that a farce?”

“What? No, I _am…_ interested- I don’t- I didn’t know what you were thinking. I wish you’d been clearer with me.”

Burns narrowed his eyes, his fingers curling around the chair’s curved armrest. “After I told you of what I feel some time ago, you had _no idea_ what I was thinking? Are you _that_ dense?” 

“I didn’t want to assume what you wanted. I didn’t want to mess up what we already had. I’m sorry.”

“Hmph. Fine.”

“But…” Waylon faltered. “What- what _do_ you want, from me? You have to tell me, if you really want-”

Burns was quiet. “I’d like something more than we have now. An extension of what I’ve tried, if you will.” He tilted his hands together, interlaced his fingers.

“Oh…” Waylon tied his own hands together, smiled despite himself and the irritation he felt. “Are you- sure?”

“I’ve scarcely been more certain, you fool. But- I am not yet …” He crossed his legs. “I am not yet at that point. You must be patient, if you’ll have me still.”

“Oh… yes, of course.” At last, they were moving forward, slipping past obstacles of their individual uncertainty. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	10. Part Nine: Try to understand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waylon and Burns go to the fundraiser gala.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the slight delay. This chapter took a while to finalise, and I think it's the longest.

Friday passed without much incident or event otherwise; Waylon picked out a suit for the gala. On Saturday, Burns decided he would wear the tailcoat sans the gloves that evening. “It would be excessive.”

“Alright.”

“You haven’t shown me what _you_ are wearing,” Burns whinged, “you did find something, didn’t you? It _is_ tonight.”

“I did, yesterday.”

“Well…?” Burns folded his arms.

Waylon sighed, retrieved the suit from its place hanging in another closet, and displayed it for Burns. The suit wasn’t anything special or spectacular- but Waylon liked it, and had worn it before. It was a dark navy, fitted with a narrow lapel. 

“Ah, this one. I recall you wore it to some gathering years ago, yes? Or was more recent?” Burns’ eyes scrolled the suit in casual scrutiny; he nodded. “Have you tried it on?” He fingered the fabric near the hem of the jacket.

“Er. No.” Waylon hadn’t considered that. “I only wore it about a year ago…” Why _hadn’t_ he tried it on, to be sure it still complemented him?

Burns shook his head. “I was not… you misunderstand. I was asking for my benefit. Perhaps I’d like the satisfaction of seeing it before everyone else.”

“Oh.” Waylon snatched the suit from where he’d hung it, failing to hide his grin. “Of course, sir.”

Burns rolled his eyes, but his manner was light. “Go on, then.”  
Waylon hurried off to dress, avoiding the mirror for fear of another headache. He flattened out several wrinkles in the fabric on his walk back, not wanting to appear too hasty.

Burns’ door was ajar; he was standing against a bedpost, his head titled down at something in his hand. Upon closer inspection, it was his hair. He was twisting strands over one another, in apparent thought. Waylon cleared his throat. “Sir?”

At once, Burns pushed his hair behind his shoulders, and only then did he catch Waylon’s eye some feet away by the threshold. His initial glare faded as he looked Waylon over, his posture relaxing.

“It is just as I remember,” he said of the suit, “you shall be the envy of many a fellow tonight.”

Waylon reddened. “I don’t know if- thank you.”

“Hm.” Burns posited himself against a nearby chair. “We both will be, you and I.”

The gala was held at a mansion indeed situated by the lake. The house’s impressive, yet dully uninspired front was a bit discouraging, Waylon thought. Beyond the structure, from the lake, moving, blinking lights shone, and voices rang in tandem, with those emitting from the house.

Stepping into the interior foyer, the view was refreshing among the increase in noise level. The somewhat art nouveau architecture featured intricate, sweeping patterns that graced the staircase and banister, continuing in the same pattern rounding a balcony, preceding identical balconies that stretched two storeys further up. Colourful Persian rugs covered large expanses of floor; lacquered wood tables were laid with silk runners and unassuming art pieces. The décor was somewhat unique, at the least.

Burns seemed self-conscious around the throngs of people, though he tried to conceal it. He glanced about, eyes darting to pinpoint someone he knew, and then skirting their periphery.

“Mr Burns?” A woman appeared in front of them out of the congregation, clad in a thin, jade gown and jewellery, black hair braided. “Mr Burns, excuse me, I’m Matilda Lannister,” she greeted. Waylon detected an accent, either English or Welsh.

Burns frowned. “Lannister… is it you, then, who is ‘M. Lannister’? The hostess, I gather.”

Matilda nodded. “Yes, I organised this event.”  
“Then… I am pleased to meet you, Ms Lannister.”  
“You too. Thank you for coming.”  
“Mm.”

“Is there anything you are interested in bidding on tonight?” she asked him, “There was a short overview in the invitations, I think, but we do have more items- they’re on display in the next hall if you want to look.”  
“The list said you are auctioning some rare books?” Burns asked, raising an eyebrow, “I have yet to acquire certain sets I wish to have…”

“If you’re interested in the antique books, we do have a few, I could show you if you’d like.”  
“You are not busy, as the hostess? There is a number of people here, I’m sure.”

“It won’t take long.”

“Very well.” Burns nodded. “Come on,” he said to Waylon, who trailed after him, wondering if Matilda was just being a gracious hostess or if she had ulterior motives to engage Burns. He couldn’t assume all women who were cordial to Burns were interested in him, that was unfair to them, but the events with Eloise had sullied his assumptions.  
“If I may ask, Ms Lannister,” Burns said as they went, “do you hail from overseas, across the Atlantic?”  
Matilda laughed. “Yes, southern England, I’m normally over there. This is my partner’s house, and I decided to host it on both our behalves; I was going to be in the States anyway; they’re out of the country right now.”

“I see. And what is it you do?” Burns asked. Waylon was only relieved to hear Matilda was already with someone else.

“I’m an archivist. So I know a bit about rare books. There are some I wouldn’t mind having, but here…” They had stopped; Matilda gestured to a long display case in the hall; books, some looking as if they would turn to dust at the slightest disturbance, sat behind glass. Some other guests were eyeing them.

“These are the books that will be available for bidding,” Matilda said, “most of them are in other languages.”

“That is fine. I speak a fair number.”  
Matilda continued, pointing, “These are the English-speaking ones… some looser documents as well, here… what are you looking for?”

“A few nineteenth century atlases, perchance, but specific ones… illuminated manuscripts…” Burns brought his hand to his chin, thinking. “A signed T.S. Elliot work, preferably his essays… what do you have in terms of… oh!” Burns had fixated on a large cluster of books, his eyes glinting. “You are offering the _Dictionnaire_ , I am surprised…”  
  


Matilda smiled, brightening at the recognition. “Yes, that is the highlight of the rare books here. It’s a first edition, all of the text volumes and illustration plates are included, as you can see.”  
“Yes… I will be keeping an eye on this.” Burns tapped his fingers together. “When is the auction?”

“Around eight, during the appetizers. After that is the dinner.”  
“Thank you.”  
“Yes, thank you, Mr Burns. I will see you later.”  
When she had gone from sight, Burns regarded the display case again. The thirty or so books sported the same brown, marbled texture on the cover, spines ridged.  
“You like Diderot, sir?” Waylon asked.

“I find this particular work interesting, yes. It is a veritable encyclopaedia of most everything, be its information archaic, of the 18th century. I do not own a set already, I would like to.”

“Mr Burns?”

A man this time, bearded, holding a glass of some alcohol, appeared in their periphery. Burns lifted his head.

“Mr David Lynch, correct? I believe I met you some years ago at one of these gatherings.”  
“Yes. How are you, Mr Burns?”

“Fine. Are you looking at the rare volumes as well? I must tell you, I intend to bid-”

“No, I’m not going for the books. Have you talked to Matilda?”

“Ms Lannister, yes, she led me here. Do you know her well?”

“Kind of. By the way, there was an article about you in the tabloids-”

Burns went red. “Don’t speak of that insipid excuse for an article. I assume you read the abhorrent _Springfield Times…_ ”

“I saw it, it was in poor taste, I agree. But it’s fine, Burns,” David said, gesturing with his thumb to Waylon, “you don’t have to hide your relationship, there’s nothing wrong with it.” Waylon suddenly felt hot.

Burns’ nostrils flared; his face reddened. “I- you misunderstand, I…” He seemed to concede, straightening his countenance. “Pipe down, will you? You don’t have any idea of what occurs in my domestic life. That article is wrong in its insinuations,” Burns hissed.

David raised his eyebrows. “Oh. My apologies, then…”

Burns scowled. “Yes… do cease speaking of it.” 

“Others will not be so open nor forgiving to the rumour of our coupling,” Burns insisted later, when they were in a less crowded area of the house. “David Lynch has some fear of me, I believe, he knows when to back down, he wouldn’t challenge me so easily, but…”

“I know.” Waylon was well aware of some people’s intolerance and blatant homophobia that accompanied certain social circles. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t know for what he was apologising- being a component of the rumour, part of the reason for any scorn towards him and Burns? Rather, _the_ reason- he could have done something else at that bar, not acted in a way that suggested anything between them, helped Burns not to drink as much as he had… “This is my fault. I should’ve been more careful.”

Burns sipped his wine. Waylon didn’t anticipate he would have a repeat of the drunkenness he had displayed at the bar, especially not in this setting. “It is not your fault that these low-life saps might ridicule us. You did not write the article. Perhaps you could have been more careful in your approach that evening, yes… but to cast upon yourself such all-encompassing blame is detrimental conjecture.”

“Still. I… I don’t want you to be subject to the ridicule and disgust people might unfortunately have for you. And I feel like I could’ve done more…”  
“Stop it, Waylon. I don’t care to repeat myself. You did not conceive, nor write, nor distribute the article. Cease your self-deprecation.”

Around 20h, they approached the hall where the dinner and auction would take place. A few hosts of sorts were showing people to their tables. Burns and Waylon were shown to theirs quickly. David Lynch was there somehow, along with his wife. Burns and Waylon were sat on the other end, leaving two empty chairs between the four of them.

“I had thought we wouldn’t have any others here with us,” Burns whispered, his eyes darting to David, who was scrolling on his phone.

Waylon shrugged, and surveyed the room for any appetisers circulating; he hadn’t eaten for hours, at least it seemed that way.

“Are you going to bid on anything besides the _Dictionnaire_?”

“Perhaps. Though nothing else I saw caught my fancy.” 

Momentarily they were served appetisers, much to Waylon’s relief. The auctioneer was preparing in the meantime on a stage. Waylon gave his attention to sampling the different foods on the tiered tray.

“Ahem. If I could have your attention,” the man onstage said then, “we will now start the first section of the auction event. Proceeds raised tonight will go towards several organisations, if you win a bid, please disclose which parts of your donation will go towards which…”

The auction went on for a while; Burns was uninterested, only engaging once the rare books category opened for bidding. Waylon took to his plate another smoked salmon on toast.

“From the rare books,” the auctioneer said then, “is a full set of Denis Diderot’s _Dictionnaire,_ a massive multi-volume encyclopaedia, from 18th century France… bidding starts at five thousand dollars.” Burns laid his utensils on the plate, turning his attention to the stage.

“Are you going to…” Waylon asked.

“I will of course bid on it, I do intend to have it. I want to see if I have any true contenders, I don’t want to appear desperate.” 

Burns refrained from participating as the bid rose to five thousand, ten. “Ten thousand, going once… twice…”  
“Fifteen,” someone called. Burns scoffed.

“Fifteen, do I hear twenty…” A pause. Burns seemed to be deliberating on speaking up or not, concentrating on the auctioneer’s words. “Twenty thousand, going once, twice…”  
“Thirty,” Burns said finally.

The auctioneer glanced in their direction. “Thirty thousand to Mr Burns…”

Surely, Waylon thought anxiously, now everyone who had even an inkling of his identity knew Burns was here.

“Thirty-five.”

Burns’ eyes shot open, he turned, glaring at the new speaker, a man, probably in his late forties; curly, greying hair, wearing a bolo tie. “Alan Gren. What does he…” he muttered. Sighing, he countered the bid, before Waylon could ask who Alan Gren was. “Forty-five.”

“Fifty,” Alan said.  
“Seventy thousand,” Burns challenged. By now many of the guests were watching, as the bid rose higher than perhaps expected.

“Seventy thousand… going once… twice…” A pause, “sold, to Mr Burns.”

Burns smirked, leaning back on his chair, and cut into a shrimp crudité.

“Who is Alan Gren?” Waylon asked now. “One of your associates? I don’t think I’ve seen him before.”

“I know of him more than I have his acquaintance,” Burns said, laying down his fork, “he is a hedge fund manager for some conglomerate or other. I respect his position, but I have not found him likable to speak with. However, he respects me, at least he has the times I’ve spoken with him, so I refrain from most scorn.”

“Hm.” 

After the rest of the books had been auctioned off, dinner appeared at the tables, which was, to Waylon, inferior to the appetisers, but he also was not as hungry now. He ate slowly, conversing with Burns in between, almost forgetting David Lynch was even across from them.

“This chicken is rather dry,” Burns said, prodding it with a knife.  
“Mine’s not any better.”  
“You filled up on appetisers, anyhow…” Burns said, and smiled, still regarding his plate, before shifting back to irritated neutrality.

In their exit from the dinner, Burns was again approached by Matilda Lannister.

“Mr Burns…!”

“Oh. Ms Lannister. Hello. Is there something you wish to speak to me of?” Burns folded his arms.

“I just never had the chance to talk after I met you earlier. I thought I would’ve talked to you at dinner, but your table wasn’t anywhere near mine. Congratulations on the bid, by the way; I didn’t expect that would go for more than ten or fifteen thousand. Seventy is incredible.”

“Yes, well.” Burns shifted, glancing about; Waylon imagined he didn’t want to stand there for long, where anyone could approach him. Even inadvertently, the auctioneer had made it known Burns was there, for those who hadn’t already been aware.

Matilda nodded. “That’s all. Thank you again for coming.”

Some others approached Burns, who in turn halted the conversation if it turned to the article, denying any allegations related to it. He seemed to grow wearier the more people spoke to him.

Looking to escape the crowds, they found their way upstairs, but they would not be alone. Waylon found a nearby toilet and left Burns to use it, encountering a brief headache; he was anxious about their frequency, but didn’t think it was important. When he returned to the hall, there were voices from the other side of the wall, in a sitting room, the door open.

“Montgomery Burns?” He recognised the speaker- it was-  
“Alan Gren. It has been some time since we conversed. You were also interested in the _Dictionnaire_ , I gather?”

“Yes. I can’t believe you went up to seventy thousand. I haven’t seen a set listed for more than twenty, usually five or six. But I didn’t think you would come here,” Alan said.  
“And why is that?” Burns’ tone was tense. 

“If an article like that had surfaced about me, I wouldn’t have come, myself.”  
“That damned _article_ ,” Burns growled, “and how much of a bonehead must you be to believe its commentary?”

“I didn’t say I believed it, but, as you say, some of it was pretty damning, yes.”

Burns seethed. “It is all lies.”

“But what happened to your boyfriend? Did he leave you by your lonesome? I saw him with you at dinner.”

Waylon didn’t move from behind the wall, positioned by the door. He was morbidly fascinated.

Burns, flustered, delayed his response. “What- Alan…” he was saying, “I was under the impression, previously, that you respected me and my position, as _I_ do yours. You have obfuscated that impression.”

“Look, it’s- it’s not important. I don’t care if you have a boyfriend, or whatever he is to you; whatever you’re into -”  
“Oh, shut up. I do not have a _…_ boyfriend.”

“That’s well and good, but you have to be careful around some of these people. The older ones especially,” Alan continued, “and think about it like this; you are in your early thirties, unmarried, and you never go anywhere without your assistant. You’ve turned down marriage to dozens of eligible women.”

“What are you driving at?”

“People- you know who I’m talking about- are going to think you’re gay. That’s how they work. They’re going to think differently of you, even regarding your current status; you don’t want to jeopardise your business connections, do you?”  
Waylon sighed. This was going smoothly.

“Do you believe I am one? I assure you, I am _not_.”

“I think you could be. It doesn’t matter to me, but it might to-”

“Then why have you wasted my time whinging about the possibility, if you do not care?”  
“I’m trying to warn you, Burns.”

“Just get out of my sight. You’re wasting my time.” 

The room was quiet; Waylon heard footsteps and so leapt from the wall, taking out his mobile phone to appear busy. As Alan came out, his expression unpleasant; he didn’t look in Waylon’s direction.

Watching until he was out of sight, Waylon peeked into the room, then entered when he saw only Burns.

“Monty?”

Burns still stood in the centre of the small room, and started, his head jerking up. “Waylon,” he said, sighing, “I expect you heard something? The door was open, foolishly, though I did not anticipate I would have a dispute with him…”  
“I heard all of it, yes.”

“I _told you_ not to eavesdrop.” Burns rolled his eyes. “No matter. It would have been difficult to not hear our quarrel. I do not believe anyone else is going to come into this room, too secluded from the action, as it were, but close the door.” Waylon pulled the door closed behind him, leaving it barely ajar.

Burns collapsed onto a divan, taking a hand through his hair, letting it fall back. “I do not know what course of action I should take the rest of the night. It has been more exhausting than I had thought, and I wonder if I am still experiencing a residual illness. I do not like talking to these people- Ms Lannister is fine, I suppose, courteous- but those who speak of the article…”  
Waylon sat beside him, his hands together. “I’m sorry, Monty.” 

“That’s all you’ve said to me tonight. You’ve no need to constantly atone.” He slouched against the fabric, turned, his expression tired, oddly vulnerable. He slid his hands up to his lapel and shrugged the tailcoat off, draping it against the seat.

“Do you want to leave?” Waylon asked, “if you’re not enjoying it anymore, we should leave; you got the _Dictionnaire_ , at least.”

Burns’ mouth twisted, his brow fraught. “And be perceived as cowardly, by those who have seen or spoken to me already, who believe I am… something degenerate? The men in my circles are powerful, but would not accept me, as Alan Gren said, to which I agree… and I am afraid.”  
“Are they _all_ homophobic? I know some of them are…”

Burns frowned. “I am unsure, if you mean they are intolerant of homosexuals, then most of the, er, older set, and some of the younger set, yes, of which I am aware. Some are apathetic to my sexuality, I imagine, but there are those who would think less of me and take action, terminate dealings with me or with the plant.”

“What would happen if they did stop doing business with you?”

“We discussed this. I suppose I would have to replace them. I wonder how difficult that endeavour might be, though…”  
“I don’t think it’d be too difficult to find replacements.”

“Fine, but this is hypothetical. I am not a homosexual, I am not- _gay,_ in that sense of the word- I am… it is more complex than that.” He said, his voice softer, “I have felt for women as well as men, I’ve told you. Perhaps I am… bisexual, as you had said… but to some, notably those associates of mine, the images projected by the word homosexual are unflattering, and they will not understand my preferences can differ. Their brains cannot conceive beyond the surface of complex thought.”  
“It’s not a complex concept.”  
“To them, it very well may be.” He crossed his legs, didn’t speak on it further. “I do wish we might leave.”

“We _can_ leave. There’s nothing to stop you. If those associates really couldn’t handle the possibility of you being anything besides completely heterosexual, then you can find new ones. You don’t need to answer to them. And…” Waylon sighed. “You _wouldn’t_ be a coward for it. You are above them. They’re the cowards.”

Burns shrugged. “I suppose so…” He gazed at Waylon. Slowly, he extended his arm, pulled back once, then reached out again, to Waylon’s shoulder. “What might I do without you?” he mused.

Waylon swallowed. “I… I don’t know.”

They were face-to-face. Waylon leaned forward, as Burns’ grip tightened like a vice on his shoulder. His face, flushed red, his eyes, encompassed Waylon’s vision. They were so close- And then-

“Waylon, I- I can’t.” Burns pulled himself away. “I’m sorry. I am… I’m not quite ready to go on with this part.”

“That’s alright.” He wanted Burns to feel completely at ease with what they did together. “I don’t think this is the best place, anyway.” 

“Yes… if by happenstance we’d an unsolicited visitor, I don’t wish to imagine what would have transpired.” He stood. “I’ll humour this function for longer still, I ought to secure my winnings from the auction. Come.”

Waylon followed him from the room. Downstairs, among the somewhat-dwindling crowd, anxiety settled upon him in an unpleasant wave. Would they encounter some of those unfavourable associates Burns had described?

Apparently, that had already come to pass. Amidst his wondering, Waylon started at the conversation unfolding in front of him. Burns regarded a larger man, taller than both he and Waylon, wearing a pince-nez and dark suit.

“… pleased with last quarter’s report- yes. But that development of yours, Montgomery- Do what you will in private. But to flaunt it- you’re only doing harm to yourself.”

“What you speak of is from an _article_ printed in an entirely unreliable rag,” Burns muttered, “and I am not flaunting anything-” He straightened, smoothed out his clothing. _He left his jacket upstairs_ , Waylon realised. “Boris, you are a reasonable man.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” the man named Boris said, “but it may be that I rethink our companies’ relations, and what I want mine to be associated with. I speak for others to whom I’ve-”

“From whom did you hear about this?”

Boris said, “I spoke to MacGregor, who’d seen that article you mentioned. It was the article, whether entirely true or not, that topped everything else- it’s been clear where your interests lie.”

“Excuse me…?” Burns’ expression was stony, his brow drawn. He seemed to notice, then, as did Boris, that Waylon stood nearby. Boris gave him a disapproving glance. Burns too glanced at him, blinked, and exhaled. “Boris, if you wish to annul our contract, I will oblige you. If you cannot keep from prying in my personal life, you and anyone else fool enough can terminate your communications with me or with the nuclear plant.”

Not bothering to hear Boris’ response, Burns turned on his heel, Waylon right behind, ending the conversation.

“It is not enough, it seems, to refute the validity of the article. These simpletons are thoroughly convinced I am a disgusting and lascivious peculiarity.” Burns scowled.

“They’re just the kind of people we talked about before.”  
“Yes, the cowards. I expect I’ll cease business with him, and then whomever else decides to stick their nose into my affairs can follow suit.” Burns nodded. “Now, to my winnings…”

 _Suit_ \- “Oh. You left your jacket in that room upstairs,” Waylon said.

“I did. I suppose we’ll retrieve it, I’ll come with you- I don’t want to wait down here amongst these people.”

“Right.”

They retraced their steps; no-one was in the room, and the tailcoat was where Burns had left it. Waylon lifted it from the sofa and went in the direction of the door.

“Wait,” Burns said, “let’s sit a moment before we continue. There’s nothing particularly exciting downstairs. I don’t wish to have another encounter like that I just had, but if I might have another, I require some repose. Close the door again.”

Burns slid against the divan much as he had before, glancing at Waylon as he returned from closing the door. Waylon sat next to Burns, and it was as if they hadn’t moved from the first time. The room was quiet, far enough away from everything and everyone else.

“Was there anything you wanted to talk about?”  
Burns looked down at his lap, his hands laying idly between his legs. “In retrospect I am … rather dissatisfied with the turn of events between us earlier,” he said.

“I didn’t- Monty, I told you, it’s okay if you aren’t ready to-”

“You don’t understand,” Burns insisted, “I cannot let myself be with you so physically yet, though I…” He shook his head. “Listen to me, Waylon, _I want to_ ,” he whispered. “When we are close, I feel as if I am liberated in a still calm, away from all that might do me harm.” 

Waylon sighed. “When… during the thunderstorm, and when we were walking together - did you feel that way?”

Burns nodded. “It was impulsive, what I proposed to you that night of the storm, and I went along with it, though I was conflicted.” He paused. “I feared that I would hate it, I expected to.” 

Waylon smiled. “And you didn’t.”

“No.” Burns returned the smile. “But I had hesitation in the garden, as well, though my previous attempt had gone smoothly,” he said, “And clearly such hesitation was short-lived.”

“I was surprised both times.”

“I would have taken advantage of your surprise and revoked the invitation,” Burns admitted, “but… I do not want my life to be put on hold by fear, preventing me from what I want to do.” Burns gripped Waylon’s hand, startling him.

“Monty…?”

Burns’ fingers climbed over Waylon’s hand, almost massaging it. Waylon watched, dwelling with cautious serenity on their contact. They were only inches apart.  
Burns looked up at him, curious clarity in his eyes, lips slightly parted, his hair copper by the yellow light of the lamps. Spots of colour ran on his cheeks, his shirt collar above his waistcoat was loose. His throat moved as he swallowed.

Bemused, Waylon waited for Burns to speak. Instead, Burns edged forward until they were at the stage of their previous impasse.

“I…” Burns hardly enunciated, but didn’t pull himself from Waylon’s immediate periphery. His rapid breathing ended in sighs. Shadows fell at the edges of the light on his face. Strands of hair brushed against Waylon’s neck, lips against his cheek. Burns sat back, his expression bright but guarded, calculating.  
Waylon could only stare, unable to think.

“It was not… quite what you had in mind,” Burns said, “but I do hope that was satisfactory.” He added, “I thought it was so.”

He found his voice. “Of- _yes_ … Monty- He cleared his throat. “I didn’t think you would-”

“I know.” Burns patted Waylon’s knee. “But I wanted to, I said. And so-”

They froze at the creak of the door.

Burns glared. “Who- _Alan_ , what are you doing here?”

Alan Gren stared at them. “I didn’t think anyone would be in here. I dropped something and I came to see if I left it in this room, from when we spoke earlier.” He raised an eyebrow at Burns. “But I can see you’re busy.”

Burns pressed his lips together, brow furrowed. “And what are you going to do, with the compromising situation you’ve stumbled upon?”  
“You have to be careful, Burns, I told you earlier,” Alan said, closing the door again, “I don’t know what you’re doing, but this isn’t the place.”

“Save me the admonishments.”  
“You’re not like you used to be,” Alan continued, not knowing just how true that statement was, “you weren’t… soft; you’re different, tonight. Or maybe I just hadn’t noticed before.”

Burns rose, coming up short of Alan in stature, but stared him down just the same. “Are you calling me weak?”

“No. I’m just saying it’s not the best idea to… do _that_ , for yourself and for your image, your company, in this setting.”

“I’ve no reason to listen to your debauchery. I can manage the power plant as I have for over thirty- er, for some years. I am not incompetent.”

“Do what you want, but…” Alan’s phone rang then. Muttering, he pulled it out and tapped the screen.

“Hey. I can’t really talk right now- yes, I’ll leave pretty soon- I didn’t win anything at the auction, I was out-bid… to Burns, you know who he- Oh, you-” He stopped, listening to the other end, nodding, and occasionally frowning at Burns. “Seriously?”

Some time passed. Waylon and Burns shared a glance, Burns’ eyebrows drawn together as he and Waylon tried to piece together the one-sided story.

Alan’s expression grew darker as he listened. “Why wouldn’t I- that doesn’t matter- yes, I will… I’ll see you.” He shoved the phone back into his pocket, countenance abrasive.

“Alan-?”

“Did you date a woman named Eloise?” Alan asked, seemingly calm.

“ _Eloise_?” Waylon repeated. Burns grimaced. The name alone made Waylon’s blood boil. The phone call… he’d been talking with… “Are you- you’re with _her_?” It made sense, he thought, they were both unlikeable.  
“Yes, and she told me just now- who _he_ was, what _he_ did to her,” Alan said, glaring at Burns, who took a step backwards, “I can’t believe you would... You can’t just walk away from these things, even if you have money.”  
“What he did- what the hell are you talking about? She emotionally abused him and tried to control him-”

“I can speak for myself,” Burns muttered, “thank you, Waylon.” He stared at Alan. “But he is correct, Ms Fleming knew no end to manipulating me to do her will. Do not trust anything she says.”  
“What credibility do _you_ have?”

“More than she. I assure you I do not jest.”

“Why would she lie to me?”

“Because she doesn’t give a damn- what makes you think you’re immune to her tricks?”

Quiet. Then Alan shifted, his hand shot out and gripped Burns’ collar, pinned him to the wall, in a matter of seconds. Burns was unable to escape as he struggled against Alan’s might. Waylon tried to fight Alan, to get him to release Burns, but Alan was stronger than him and pushed Waylon away with ease. Waylon stumbled against the nearest chair, and stood, irate in his powerless disposition. 

Burns’ face pale, he glanced at Waylon. He seemed tiny next to Alan, and fearful, unprotected.

“What… what are you…” Burns’ voice was entrenched with laborious exhales; were he not against the wall, Waylon thought he might faint. 

“I know what you did to her,” Alan said. 

“What-” Burns panted, “I did nothing… get your hands… off of me.”

Waylon clenched his fists, seething. “You don’t know anything about what happened,” he hissed at Alan, “You don’t understand. Let _go_ of him…” He glanced worriedly at Burns. 

“Fine.”

Alan released Burns, who gasped, breathing heavily, backing away from Alan, over to Waylon. Without hesitation he took Waylon’s outstretched hand. He fell onto the divan, his arms about himself.

Waylon wanted to knock the living daylights out of Alan. “Monty…” He gazed at Burns, as colour crept back into his face.

“I’m fine, Waylon.” Burns coughed. “What in _hell_ was that?” he growled at Alan, “you’ve no right to-”  
“No right?” Alan continued staring Burns down, “you’re going to say that now?”

Burns said, still catching his breath, “I don’t know…” he cleared his throat, “what you are talking about. I did nothing to her. I don’t want to think on it anymore.” He closed his eyes. “What is it you think I did to her, if I must know?”

“She said you cheated on her with him,” Alan said, and pointed at Waylon, “which makes sense. You didn’t care about her. You just used her so people wouldn’t think you weren’t straight.”

“Straight…?” Burns narrowed his eyes. “You mean heterosexual. But that is not what happened. I cared for her a great deal, until I realised the harm she’d done. I couldn’t have had an affair because I was _not_ in another relationship at the time, not with Smithers here, nor with anyone else. But you had no right to attack me.”  
Alan shook his head. “You’re... This got out of hand, fine. But I still won’t take your word.”  
“I don’t care, provided that you don’t act on your false assumption. You aren’t some heroic, noble knight for attacking me on her behalf, either.”

“I told her I would speak to you,” Alan said of his phone conversation with Eloise.

“I see.” Burns stood again. “I believe we’re finished. Both here and with any mutual business indefinitely, though I can’t remember the last time we held transactions as it is…”

Alan moved towards the door. “And, Alan,” Burns continued, sneering, “I wish you luck with Ms Fleming, but do heed my warning. I would advise you to terminate your relations with her.”

“Fine.”

 _He’s just going to walk away like that?_ Furious at his contempt and his delusion over Eloise, Waylon leapt and clamped his hand around Alan’s arm; Burns’ eyes widened.

“What the-” Alan glared at Waylon and released his arm. “You’re really not worth it,” he said. Glaring at them a final time, he left. Vaguely, Waylon wondered what Alan had lost, that he had come in for, but he didn’t care.

“He…” Burns said, atop the divan again, “he is dating Eloise, can you believe that?”

“It makes sense, I guess. But I don’t… are you okay?”

“I am tired, and a bit sore.” He said then, “I do not regret coming, if only for the auction I won. But I have had enough of this so-called gala. And I cannot bear to speak to another ignoramus. Let’s hasten to secure my winnings and take our exit.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	11. Part Ten: Open Doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Developments arise after the gala...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here!

Burns had gone to bed fairly soon after they arrived at the manor, dragging his feet, almost falling asleep before he climbed into bed.

Waylon stayed up a while after, the entire night at the gala melding together in his head as he too succumbed to fatigue, yawning, the bed enticing.

_The slow drift of the Seine traffic sounded distantly from between the banks of the city overlapped by the chattering from the open cafes._

_Waylon found himself by a mirror hung on the stained wood wall of a quiet bar, whose patrons and bartenders seemed out of a monochrome film, cigarette smoke and hats obscuring their faces. The atmosphere was somewhat calming, soothing, against clinks of glasses and the soft tones of voice. He sporadically caught French, though he could never make out a conversation; it floated around him in lyrical waves._

_The mirror was of green glass circled by gold. He hesitantly glanced into it, his hand going to his collar. No headache came, or perhaps it was only mollified by the ambiance.  
He was a version of himself from a bygone time. A dark suit, unbuttoned, a vest and dress shirt underneath. His glasses, too, had changed, the frames smaller, and his hair was swept to one side. _

_Briefly, he wondered why he was there, but then, he was supposed to be here, in Paris-_

_Hands fell on his shoulders, he lifted his head to the mirror. His expression softened; he smiled, turned. “Monty.”_

_Burns smiled, his hand sliding into Waylon’s. He wore a light jacket over vest, just as old-fashioned as Waylon’s. His eyes were clear and bright, his hair slightly windswept._

_“I told you I would return,” he murmured, “come.”_

_Waylon had no idea where they might be going, but that didn’t matter._

_Out a door, into the street streaming with lamps and lights from the city’s nightlife, his hand in Burns’, his heart alight._

_Suddenly into a warm alcove, from elsewhere music played. A subtle musk clung to the air. Burns slipped him behind a corner, caressed his hair, his face._

_“Dear Waylon…”_

_Lips closed over his, Burns’ hands behind Waylon’s head and back pulling him against Burns’ chest, over his heart._

_The lucidity of his touch struck Waylon, compelled him to fervour, holding onto Burns’ slender frame, tenderly kissing him in return, lingering on each exchange, forever fearing he would soon be disillusioned._

_Burns coughed, a ragged grunt, and Waylon shifted backwards, his brow furrowed as Burns continued to cough, his elbow covering his mouth, his head tilted down._

_“Monty?”_

_Burns brought his hand away from his face, stained deep red on his palm. He regarded Waylon with watering eyes, his expression contorted with pain. “I…” He coughed again, more blood. His body shook and heaved. Waylon lifted him from under as he began to fall, biting his lip in worry. Blood flecked Burns’ face and collar._

_“We- we have to get you help!” Waylon snatched a cloth and dabbed at the blood, as more trickled from the side of Burns’ mouth._

_“It’s…” Burns coughed again, “it’s too late, Waylon. Stay with me, now.” He clung to Waylon’s sleeves by shaking hands._

_Waylon’s tears fell onto Burns’ already-stained clothing, darkening the white fabric. He sank towards the floor. Burns looked on helplessly._

_“Don’t… don’t leave me now,” Waylon begged._

_“I’m sorry, Waylon. I…”A last brush on his cheek, and Burns collapsed in his arms._

_A wrenched cry screamed in his throat, lost before it could entangle the quiet. He only gasped, and breathed out. Choked by his love for Burns, that he felt so deeply, that would now only serve to haunt him and tear him apart._

Waylon felt tired still when he woke on Sunday morning, but not especially so. Rather, he exhaled, inhaled, reminded himself he was in the present, he was at Burns’ house. And Burns… certainly, he was alright… what would Waylon do if he really- _No_.

Warily, fearing something really might befall Burns, Waylon walked across the halls to his door. Upon knocking, he was startled, worried, to illicit a groan.

He opened the door. Burns lay on his back, the covers piled at the base of the bed.

“Monty, are you-” Closer, Burns’ face and neck shone with perspiration, his hair sticking to his skin. Burns, his half-lidded eyes ringed with shadow, looked at Waylon without moving his head. He looked awful, compared to the night before; his face was almost devoid of colour.

“Waylon…” he groaned.

Alarmed at Burns’ state, Waylon grabbed the thermometer, felt his forehead. “What happened?”

“Another fever, it seems…” At the least, he was not coughing up blood. An odd dream Waylon had had, one he hoped to never live out. What a cruel twist it had forced into his mind. It seemed to be the latest instalment in a string of idyllic, wonderful dreams that all had turned to nightmares.

“You seemed okay last night.” Waylon frowned at the thermometer, registering Burns’ again-high temperature. “You did say you were tired and sore, but I didn’t think that was anything… You didn’t feel this bad until you woke up?”

“Mm…” Burns was splayed upon the bed, his gaze drowsy. “It’s worse than the first time. I feel weak. I can hardly move.” He closed his eyes. “You might’ve to help me with things, don’t know how long this’ll last…”

“I’ll get the medicine. That should help a little.” _Something stronger, too…_

He picked up the medicine they’d used before and another, and went back.

“I can’t lift that glass…” Burns glanced at the water. “Give me the tablets there and hold the glass for me. I’ll have to sit up…”

Waylon supported Burns, leaning his upper body more upright against the pillow, taking care to be gentle. He gave him the medicine, placed it in Burns’ open palm, and took the water from the nightstand, tilting the glass so Burns could drink from it and swallow the tablets. Afterwards Burns slid down again, asked Waylon to pull the covers up, closed his eyes again. “I’ll take a rest,” he murmured, “come back in an hour.”

Waylon turned his light off, quietly exited the room, and went to eat breakfast, figuring he may as well while Burns was asleep. It was odd, but familiar, giving Burns physical assistance again. He now seldom needed that sort of assistance at all.

An hour passed. Burns was awake, his head turned towards the window, the sunlight. The covers he’d shrugged off mostly.

“Waylon…”  
“Do you feel any different?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” He made an attempt to shrug.  
“Do you want anything?”

“No. I ought to just… rest.”

Waylon headed upstairs later, after occupying himself with menial tasks for a while, and then reading a book. He paused before going into Burns’ room, amid a disquieting silence. “Sir?” he called. There wasn’t any response. Burns could still be asleep.

Waylon opened the door, biting his lip.

Burns was not, as he had been, in bed. Instead he was sprawled on the floor, seemingly unconscious. Had he fallen off in his sleep? Though he wasn’t close enough to the bed for that to have been the case. Perhaps he had fainted, but how long ago? Waylon rushed to him, dropping to the floor on his knees.

“Sir? Monty.”

Burns’ face was practically white. Waylon lightly shook his shoulder. Nothing. He dug his hands into themselves. Hesitantly, he checked Burns’ pulse, fearing the worst, and sighed when he still felt one. But he discovered a problem when he realised heat was almost radiating from Burns. Waylon felt his forehead. Shit. His fever had gotten worse.

He lifted Burns from the floor and onto the bed, then wondered what he should do. Burns seemed so fragile.

Waylon took the thermometer and tested it. One hundred and six. He dropped it and stared at Burns, willing him to respond. He needed to cool him down. The fans already running, he went into the bathroom and wet a towel, wrung it out, and placed it on Burns’ forehead. What else was he supposed to do, besides take Burns to the hospital? He could get a physician to come here, but it would be easier to take Burns there; they had better equipment at the hospital anyhow.  
He froze when Burns’ eyes opened a crack.

“Monty-”

“Waylon…” His voice was weak. He sighed and turned his head, returned to his unconscious state.

Waylon didn’t want to wait around to see if Burns would respond again, because in that time he could debilitate further, and after that-

Waylon’s dream flashed in his head, bloody and grievous. He couldn’t let that befall Burns if he could help it. 

The hospital, then, seemed to be his only option now. With a glance at Burns, Waylon took out his phone and dialled the emergency number.

“Yes, he has a very high fever,” said the doctor, “any longer without intervention, and he may have been even worse off.”  
Waylon nodded. “Will he be alright?”

“Eventually. His body needs time to heal.”  
“Could I see him?”  
“Yes, you may. Room 314.” The doctor turned to leave, then said, “of course, it’s a single.”

Some colour had returned to Burns’ face, though he was still unconscious. Waylon watched fluid drip through its bag and into the IV tube, his eyes half closed. It was only a quarter to five.

“Waylon?”

Immediately, he went to Burns. “Sir-”

Burns’ voice was soft, his manner subdued. “Have I died?”

“No, you’re at the hospital,” Waylon told him, “your fever got worse. I found you on the floor in your bedroom.”

“Why was I on the floor?” He blinked slowly. “I don’t remember that.”  
“You… you must have fainted.”

“Are you sure I’m awake?” Burns’ words were only somewhat enunciated. “See Smithers, look at my hand…”  
“What are you talking about?” His hand looked no different save for the IV.

“But it is the hand of a younger man… Smithers, I am hallucinating, or I’ve died, look at me-”

Was he delirious?  
“Don’t you remember what happened?” Waylon said, dropping his voice, “with your, er, age? Or lack thereof?”

“What the hell are you talking about…” Burns seemed to notice the rest of himself. “Smithers, I’m _young_ again, look, I must have died…”  
Waylon, paranoid of being overheard, looked at the door, then back at Burns. “Sir, this already happened to you, weeks ago. You aren’t dead.”

“I need a looking glass...”

There were no mirrors in sight, except in the toilets. “Sir-”

But Burns was asleep again. Waylon gazed at him and hoped he hadn’t really forgotten the change. He would have to see what happened the next time Burns woke.

  
Later

Burns had been asleep for a few hours, and the doctor had said he would probably sleep until the morning. Wanting to be more useful than not, Waylon took a cab to the manor to retrieve some of Burns’ things to take back to the hospital for him. He didn’t want to take a long time, in case Burns did wake up, were still in a state of apparent short-term memory loss, and said anything else about his age or appearance. It wouldn’t bode well if this were said in the company of the doctors or nurses, who might question why he would say such seemingly illogical things. But it was better that Burns was in the hospital, where he could recover, rather than still on the floor unconscious.  
Waylon gathered some of his own things and then checked Burns’ room again to be sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

On the nightstand, there was a piece of paper sticking out from underneath a tissue box and book. With Burns’ handwriting. He lifted the paper out and glanced at it, then froze when he saw his name near the top left corner. It was a letter. 

He stared at it. Waylon didn’t want to invade his privacy. But seeing his own name on the paper, his curiosity got the best of him.

_Tuesday the XX of XXX_

_My dear Waylon_ , it read,

_These days we’ve passed have been odd, if nothing else. Never in my life, once through these many years I have spent, did I think I would receive another chance at my youth like this. I cannot describe what elation I still to this day feel._

_And what is ever stranger is that you and I are the only ones who remember life before, as if we have traversed into another dimension that realized my desire, my speculation, to be young once more, into a veritable praxis. I was, and am, incredulous. I wonder about the photograph I threw into the fire that night… though I can make no coherent judgement on its role yet._

_Anyhow, I have considered what you’ve said. I know of the seemingly eternal flame you hold for me_. _Your words have not been lost on me. And I know the biting query that consumes you: do I, also, love you, as you love me so? To both our detriment, I still cannot be certain._

_What I do know to be true is this: you are my closest friend. I care for you. And you care for me with resolute, not only as your superior, but who I am in our solitude. You have taken care of me through this fever and aided me after the incident with Eloise, for which I am… glad. What did you say- that if I feel something, as I have admitted I do, that should be sufficient? But to take another step in that direction, I was unprepared and unfortunately inarticulate. I was afraid._

_Know that I want to let myself partake in the close proximity to which you ascribe and for which long so._

_Waylon, you are different.  
I trust you. And that you have earned over these many years. _

_If I am not presently in love with you, at the least I feel something, and I care about you. Does that amount to love such as yours?_

_Perhaps._

_-Monty_

Waylon kept staring at the paper, his heart thumping. The letter was dated to the past Tuesday, only some days ago. Was this what Burns had been thinking, even then, before he’d invited Waylon to bed? Burns never meant to give this to him, or if he did, Waylon would be surprised. But Burns had poured his heart into this letter.

Carefully, Waylon slid it back under the tissue box on the nightstand, reeling from his discovery. He looked at the bag of supplies he had gathered and remembered he should go back to the hospital, if only for some time. Then, he supposed, he could go home to his apartment if he really needed to, and go to the hospital again the next day.

On the drive from the manor, bits of the letter replayed over in his head. He tried to push them away, feeling, despondently, as if he had violated Burns’ privacy.

By the time he arrived at the hospital, he had worked himself up so much over his possible transgression that he was almost unwilling to remove himself from the car. But he had to leave eventually. And, instead, he turned back towards his apartment, not ready to face Burns yet.

Waylon set his bag on the kitchen table and then went into his bedroom to change clothes. He saw a notebook he’d left out on top of the cabinet and remembered something. He went to his desk, small compared to the one at the plant, and opened a drawer. Under miscellaneous objects was a stack of papers. He took it out, shut the drawer, and read what was on the top page:

_Dear Monty,_

_I don’t know when I’ll be able to tell you this. I’ve never found a good time, so far._

_But I love you. I’m in love with you._

After this there were several sentences he had crossed out. It was an older letter, at least fifteen or twenty years old.

_I don’t know if I can tell you. I know what you’ll say- ‘How ridiculous, Smithers’, or something like that. ‘How could you be in love with me.’_

_I don’t think you feel the same way. But I will always be there for you. ~~I hope we can always be friends, at least.~~_

He hadn’t liked that line. ~~~~

_I will always love you. I-_

He had written some more after that, but it was a bit sappy and difficult to read without stopping to scold himself. 

There were about forty other letters in the stack, of varying lengths. Waylon took them all and slid them into his bag. He may as well, he thought, give Burns the chance to see them, even though he knew it wasn’t the same; this was voluntary. But he didn’t know how else to compensate.

Now it was past eight. He had had some initial difficulties getting past the hospital reception, since technically it was after visiting hours. He stopped in the doorway of Burns’ room. After standing there for some time, he dropped Burns’ things near the bed and then left the hospital, heading for his apartment.

Before he went back to the hospital the next morning, Waylon had remembered that he should return to the Enquirer to see if he could talk to the editor in chief Paul. He wanted to do right by Burns as much as he could, so he swung by the offices.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked, stirring something in a Styrofoam cup.  
“I’m here to see Paul…”

“Smith!” Josh had appeared at the end of the hall nearest the reception.

Waylon stopped before he remembered that was his name here. “Josh.”  
“I didn’t think you were going to come back here.”  
“Is Paul-”

“Yes, he’s back, but I don’t think it’s worth it.” Josh sipped from a mug and shrugged. “But do what you want. Good luck. His door is a few down from mine.”  
Waylon nodded and thanked him, then headed towards the office. He found it easily enough. _Paul Rus, Editor in Chief._ He knocked.

“It’s open.”

He took the handle and opened the door. “Paul?”  
“Are you that guy who was in here last week?” Paul asked, “Josh mentioned you earlier. Smith?”  
“Yes.” Waylon sighed. “I wanted to ask about that article. Why did you approve it?”  
“The article… which one?” Paul pulled out a copy of the issue and began to flip through it, still looking at Waylon.  
He coughed. “The one about Mr Burns. From last week.” He thought Paul would know that already, unless he were doing it to give him a hard time.

“Oh, _that_ one.” And by Paul’s tone, Waylon figured he was giving him a hard time. “It would sell. And Burns never reads the _Enquirer_. Even if he did, he wouldn’t care. It doesn’t matter. What does it matter to you?”

Waylon opened his mouth, but he didn’t want to run the risk of revealing himself, assuming Paul didn’t know who he was. “But it’s not true.” He realised how ridiculous that sounded.

Paul laughed. “People don’t read the _Enquirer_ for straight truth. That’s not exciting enough. And we had a witness at that bar he was at. Things were pretty obvious, according to him.” He raised an eyebrow at Waylon. His heart quickened. Did Paul know who he really was? “He wrote the article. I only approved it.” 

They were going in circles, and Waylon didn’t think he was going to extract much more substance from Paul. But that meant Tim had been at the bar that night.

“Thank you for your time, Mr Rus,” was all he said.

As Paul hadn’t been very useful, he wanted to seek out Tim, whose information he was able to get from Josh on his way out. Planning to tell Burns the update if he were receptive, Waylon drove from there to the hospital.

“He was awake a bit earlier this morning,” the doctor informed him when he arrived, “I think he mentioned you.”

Waylon nodded, wondering what state Burns was in now, and entered the room with the bag he had brought with him. He thought Burns was asleep again, but upon closer inspection he was simply lying still, his eyelids only halfway closed.  
“Sir?”

Burns shifted his eyes to look at Waylon. “Waylon…. Did you just arrive here? Where were you this morning?” His voice was quiet.

“I went to the Enquirer. I’ve been looking into the article, like you wanted.”  
“Yes, that… what did you find this time around?”

He explained to Burns the main points from his second visit to the office, ending with his desire to find Tim and question him. Burns nodded slowly but didn’t linger on the topic.

Waylon remembered the letters he had brought with him, and wondered if or when would be an appropriate time to bring them up, because then he would also have to tell Burns that he read the other letter. 

“By the way,” Burns was saying, and Waylon looked at him, “I glanced at those letters,” and he pointed to not the bag Waylon had brought just now, with the letters, but the one from last night that he had left here. He stared at it. What was Burns talking about?  
“You… did?” _How could he have read them, unless_ …

“I assumed you had brought the bag for me, and so I had the attendant open it and show it to me, but clearly they were not my things. Did you not think-”

Waylon looked closer at the bag he had brought that he had thought had the letters in it. He opened it, and mentally kicked himself. He had accidentally switched the bags, had dropped the wrong one off the night before.

“This… _these_ are your things,” he said, pointing to the bag he had brought with him. “I gave you mine instead.”

“I see.”

“So, you did read them?” _If he did the same thing I did_ …

“I only read one or two. Does that… _upset_ you?”  
“No.” Perhaps his answer would have been different in other circumstances, but he had done similar.

Burns continued, “Some of them were entirely too sappy and melodramatic to bother with. But, yes, the ones with substance that I could bear to read I did.” He folded his arm over his chest. “I have little to do here while I am not asleep. But why were they there? Why did you bring them here?”  
Waylon shifted his hands behind his back. “When I was collecting some things from your bedroom for here, I… found a letter.”  
Burns squinted at him. “What letter?”

“It was on the nightstand.”  
Burns repeated the words to himself, then said, “Yes, I do recall that. And then you proceeded to read it?”

“Yes.” He sighed, feeling Burns’ eyes on him. “That’s- that’s why I brought my letters. I wanted to do something.”

“So you thought you would make things equal by having me read your attempts at love letters?”  
Waylon dismissed his own irritation and said, “I- I’m sorry that I read your letter. But…” He faltered.

“I suppose, if I did leave it in the open, that you would have seen it. And you saw your name, and got too curious, yes?”

He wondered if Burns had planted the letter there purposefully, although he didn’t think that was very likely. Then again, it was something Burns would do. Had he _wanted_ him to read it?  
“You didn’t bring it with you, did you?” Burns was asking now.

“Oh- no, I left it where I found it.”

“And what did you think, when you read it?” Burns sighed. “I didn’t know if I would ever give it to you. But it doesn’t matter. You know what it says, and I’ve made it clear what I want from you since I wrote it, especially since last night.”

Waylon didn’t say anything. He felt stupid standing there.

“What are you staring at?”  
“Nothing.”

“Then sit down and stop doing that.”

“I- I thought you would’ve wanted me to leave.”  
“Do you want to leave? I thought you couldn’t _wait_ to come here.”

“Aren’t you-”

“Listen, Waylon, we’re on equal footing with this letter business. I read those without your knowledge as well.” He pointed to the bag again. “Get that into your head.”

“I didn’t- violate your trust?” How idiotic that sounded.

Burns repeated, “ _Violate my trust_? And why are you not asking the same of me?”  
“You wrote in the letter that you trusted me.”

Burns thought. “I believe I remember that. And? If you did, then I also violated your trust, according to your _sound_ logic. And it hardly matters, my dear Waylon…” 

He couldn’t form a response to that. Burns had a point.

“It would take more than reading the letter to truly _violate_ my trust. You should know that.”  
“…Yes.”

Burns said then, “Go back to the manor and get the letter.”

“You want me to get the letter?”  
“Must I repeat myself so needlessly? Retrieve it and come back here.”  
Waylon stood up again. “Sorry.”  
Burns shook his head. “Just go.”

When he returned to the room, Burns was sitting up, tapping his fingers on the bed rail. He stopped when Waylon came in.

“Waylon, sit down.” He did. He didn’t know what Burns wanted.

“Do you love me?”  
The question startled him, both in its bluntness and being unexpected. “Wha- sir, you know how I- of course.”

“Come here, then.”  
Frowning, Waylon moved himself closer to the bed, then looked at Burns, who looked back at him.

“You haven’t been very responsive, if that’s true,” Burns continued, and he reached out and gripped Waylon’s hand. Waylon looked from his hand to Burns. “And I thought I was quite clear. You said nothing about it earlier, you just whinged about violating my trust.” He snorted. “So I have to spell it out for you, though it should have been clear enough by now. You are aware, I would hope-”  
“What do you mean?” Waylon asked carefully.

“The _letter_ , of course… the letter I wrote, you brought it? That should make everything entirely transparent for you, since you seem not to… never mind.”  
“Yes.” He took it from his bag and gave it to Burns, who squinted at it.

“ _Ahem_ … what did I say, yes, look, Waylon.” He pulled Waylon closer to him so they could both see the paper. Burns read aloud, “ ‘ _I want to let myself partake in the close proximity to which you ascribe and for which I long so’.”_

Burns turned to him. “Did you not remember how I expressed this desire? At the gala, and before then as well.” He sighed, irritated. Waylon stared at him. 

“And now-”

Burns glared. “My mind is quite lucid, and has been. And I wrote this…” He jabbed at the paper with his finger- “with an equally clear head. I know what I’m doing.” He rolled his eyes. “You are afraid to go on, though you are surely aware of how I feel,” he said, “and I- do you think it was easy for _me_ to write that idiotic letter? Or to do what I did afterwards, to… act on my feelings?” He took Waylon’s hand again, though this time his grip was stronger, moving down towards his wrist. “Have you somehow changed your mind, after all that?”

Waylon finally formed a coherent response. “No, I couldn’t. And- I just don’t want to do anything we’ll regret later. Or you’ll regret.” But he was stalling. Burns was right, he had anxieties about their future, but…

“Oh- this is pathetic-” Burns huffed and said, “I want this, I am sure now. You are sincere, you care for me, I… I feel an elusive sense of calm when I am around you, as if we are supposed to convene.”

He avoided Waylon’s rapt gaze before deciding to face him. “I’ve wasted time beating around the bush,” he continued, “but with what I’ve done over the past days- how transparent must I be for you? I- I _kissed_ you last night, for…” He shook his head, “If Alan hadn’t interrupted us, who knows what we might have done?”

“I- I don’t know what to-?” Waylon stammered. After all this time, as everything could come to fruition, why was he hesitating? The end of the dream, surely, nothing like that would come to pass, if they were to do this-

Burns had leaned towards him. Every imagination of this moment played instantaneously in his mind, fading as Burns’ lips skimmed his mouth, fell into position, Burns’ only utterance a soft “ _Oh_ …”

Burns’ hand was on the back of his neck, climbing up, the heat of his skin glancing his own, his hand moving from Burns’ shoulder to his hair, strands soft between his fingers.

Waylon had dissolved, forgetting his place grounded in the hospital room; here there were he and Burns and no-one else but they. And this was real.

If only to rest, they pulled apart as time renewed itself. Burns’ face was flushed, open, as he considered Waylon, his eyes uncharacteristically round and curious.

Before Waylon could finish processing what they’d done, Burns seized him, and they resumed, with familiarity of sensation, a fervour to touch and caress and feel again.   
  


Burns pulled back, sinking into the bed, his hand around Waylon’s. Waylon cleared his throat, his hand not under Burns’ shaking. “I- Monty-” He thought his heart would burst from his chest.

Burns grinned. “Was it… what you’d hoped?”

Waylon blinked. “What- yes, oh…” He guessed he looked ridiculous; dishevelled, red in the cheeks, though Burns was no different in that respect. But he was deliriously euphoric. “I never thought we would do that.”  
“Nor did I, until recently. Until last night. I wanted that again.”

“And did you-”

“I went in for seconds, Waylon; yes, I liked it. I’d been wanting to try that since last night, after I had a taste… of sorts.” Burns gave him a look. “Have you eaten?”

“I had breakfast before I went to the _Enquirer_ earlier.”

“You shall have something here with me, then.”

Waylon nodded eagerly.

Dr Hibbert came in a bit later. They had eaten already. “Your temperature has gone down,” he told Burns, “we’d just like to keep you here for a little longer. Not too long.”

“And _how_ long is that?”

The doctor laughed. “Soon.” Burns raised his eyebrows. “Later today or tomorrow morning is my estimate, Mr Burns.”

“Fine,” Burns scoffed, “but no longer.”  
When Dr Hibbert left, Waylon asked, “Is there anything you want to do, after you can leave?”

“I haven’t thought of specific activities. We could see if we can track down the fool who wrote that article- Tim? Yes, that is an appropriate name. Plebeian.”

Waylon remembered how Burns had initially reacted to the article. “And what about the things it says?”  
“What about them? There may indeed be some truths, but there was little decency in producing that garbage.”  
“Yes, I just-”  
“What?”  
“Since it is partially true- what if he realises it, that you and I are… and uses it against you?”  
“He won’t get that far. I’ve dealt with worse.”  
“So, you aren’t worried about being seen together in public?” _Together?_

“Not particularly, I should be allowed to do what I wish,” Burns said loftily. “This Tim fellow ought to know who I am. I am not some common _whore_ who is featured in a rag like the _Enquirer_. And I.. I should have no qualms being with you ‘in public’, any longer.”  
The last remark made him grin slightly. “Good to know.”

Later that day, Burns was cleared for release. They sat in the hospital lot in Waylon’s car, Burns wearing the clothes Waylon had brought for him.  
“Do you want to go home?” If it were earlier in the day, and Burns hadn’t just gotten out of the hospital, he might suggest they find Tim, but now it was almost four, anyhow. The _Enquirer_ closed at five.

Burns leaned back in the passenger seat. Though he seemed tired, he looked healthier, having less of a sickly pallor. “If we must. Do you know how to find that man?”

"I got his information from one of the people there; I could call him, I think, if he's not there at the offices."

“Yes,” Burns agreed, then he paused and added, “You’ve been very efficient.”

“Thank you.”

Burns gestured at the gear shift, brushing Waylon’s hand as he did so. “Yes, well. Let’s go.”

Waylon took the hand against his, pulled Burns towards him, spiralling in his own euphoria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	12. Part Eleven: Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the hospital. Waylon gets an email.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, sorry this took a bit longer than normal, I've been a bit busy I suppose. Thank you to the comments and kudos I've received, it's all very lovely.

At the manor again, rather than staying indoors, they went outside into the gardens, walking together.

“It seems like a long time ago that we went jogging here,” Burns said. Waylon nodded, remembering the eventful bar visit that had followed. “But then, we were here again only some days ago…” Though, Waylon thought, much had changed between them since the last time they’d done this.

Now they walked slowly, their focus on one another.

“Waylon.”  
“Yes?”

Burns turned towards him. “When we were speaking earlier, before we left the hospital, and I said I had no qualms about being together in public-”

Waylon should have expected him to change his stance. “And now you don’t want to do that.”

Burns glared. “I was not finished. I mean what I said then, but- I do not want to do everything for the public to see. I am sure you can agree to that?”  
“I- if that’s what you want, but-” _What is he afraid of?_ “If this is about your reputation, I don’t think that it would be affected negatively.”

Burns looked at him for a while. “Fine, perhaps it is somewhat how I am perceived, but I cannot seem vulnerable. I do not want to feel like I did with Eloise, either. And do you remember, what I was before? Now that I have this youth, I cannot let myself-”

“You can’t let yourself do what you want?” Waylon didn’t want to interrupt Burns again, but he was becoming indignant. “You _aren’t_ weak or vulnerable, you never have been. What happened to ‘I can do what I want’? You can’t worry about what everyone else is thinking about you all the time, and you shouldn’t.”

Burns didn’t scold him again for interrupting, but narrowed his eyes in thought. “And what about the _article_?”  
“It’s garbage. And anyone who takes it seriously isn’t worth your time, none of those people at the gala who brought it up. You can’t waste time stopping yourself from doing what you want because some lowbrows get ideas from it. Then you’re letting them get to you.”

“Yes…” Burns stopped, “why should I give a damn what these Neanderthals have to say?” He straightened himself and put his hand on Waylon’s shoulder. “Then, I shall do what I wish. Thank you.”

Waylon sighed. “Of course. Er, does that mean you wouldn’t mind doing some things, at least, in public? Normal things, like holding hands-”

“Holding hands? Are we five?” Burns scoffed.  
“-or, er, kissing. Just little things.”

Burns nodded. “Yes, that should be fine.” He added, “I only want for some activity to remain between you and I and no-one else.”

Waylon smiled to himself at the last statement. “And do you still want to look into Tim?”  
“Oh, that…” Burns wrinkled his nose. “You did already start that ordeal. And he did write that without thinking he would have consequences for the way he wrote about me- us. I suppose a bit of interrogation will do. Tim will have to accept resignation, or he will face… repercussions.”

Burns seemed to understand he shouldn’t have to worry about others’ views of him so often. But Waylon didn’t expect him to completely overcome his fear of damaging his reputation, or of how he was perceived. It would take time to mend further. But time they seemed to have.

Waylon slipped his hand into Burns’, whose hand fit into Waylon’s, fingers around and between his, and they were whole.

“Waylon, stop.”  
Waylon lifted his head from Burns’ chest. First kissing the side of Burns’ face, he had moved down onto his neck and shoulders and then below his collarbone some. “Is something wrong?”

Burns shook his head. “No, no, but your glasses-”

“My _glasses_?”

Burns twisted his hair over his shoulder. “I do like how you look with them on, of course, but they are digging into my skin. They may pose further problems. Perhaps you should take them off.”  
Waylon sat up and looked at him. “But… I can’t see anything if I do that.”

“Have you never worn contacts?”

“Actually, not really.”

Burns nodded, thinking. “Wait here.” He slid off the bed and headed towards the bathroom. Waylon had a good guess of what he was doing. But he simply waited while Burns rummaged through drawers, muttering.   
Minutes later Waylon was presented with a pair of contacts. “You don’t need glasses.” Why did Burns have them in the first place?  
“I have many things laying around that I haven’t used yet,” Burns continued, “but these presented the perfect opportunity.”

Waylon frowned, wondering if there were more to the story than that, but took the box. He wasn’t the biggest fan of contacts- glasses were easier to manage, he liked them enough, and he’d hardly considered switching. And did he want to, now? “This… seems unnecessary,” he told Burns. “And I don’t think this is really why you wanted to stop.”

Burns stared at him and then sighed. “Fine. It was only an idea.” He sat down next to Waylon, and looking elsewhere, said, “It is possible I was exaggerating. Your glasses were but a… minor nuisance, if anything.” Was Burns apologising? But what had been the point of this? It seemed such a trivial spot to fuss over.

“Monty, if there’s another issue…” 

Burns still regarded the wall, his hands twisting together. “No.”

The fabric of his shirt was mildly interesting as he too avoided looking. “Was there… something about what we were doing that you didn’t like?”

He feared something was unravelling already, and he would rather have had Burns say what was bothering him now _. Is that why he wanted to stop_?

“No, not… I _was_ enjoying that,” Burns said, quietly, “do not misunderstand me, I have no intentions to _stop_. But I fear…” He faltered, and began again, “I must tell you, I have only been very intimate with other men twice, and that was long ago, such that I have some vaguer recollection if it. I’ve had smaller flings here and there, but I have seldom been ‘all the way’ with one for years.”

Waylon gazed at him. Burns avoided eye contact, his face red. “Ugh… I’d rather not say so, but in some ways I feel as if I were still so _old_. _Weak_.” His voice was laced with vitriol and contempt. “And that cannot be.”  
“But you aren’t… I mean, you aren’t the same as you were before. And that time and place don’t seem to exist anymore, anyway. So you can’t look back.” Waylon watched him. “But you were _never_ weak,” he added, “not even before.”

He felt somewhat touched that Burns had admitted his nervousness when Waylon knew it wasn’t easy for him to do so. But he wondered what thoughts in Burns’ head continued to propagate the notion that he was weak in any shape or form. 

“What are you suggesting?” Burns asked, turning towards Waylon again, his eyebrows furrowed. “That I forget most of my life?”

“No… just try to… keep going forward, now.” Burns rolled his eyes. “Well, you know what I mean.” When Burns didn’t say anything, he continued, remembering the contacts still existed, “Do you still want me to wear these?”

Burns glanced down at the box. “No, I told you already. It doesn’t matter.” He looked back up and took Waylon’s hand, pulling him back towards the position they had been in on the bed.

Burns, laying down, grasped the buttons on his shirt, undoing the still-closed ones near the bottom. Waylon watched him curiously. Burns turned his head. “What are you gawking at? I was rather hot.” His hands fell from his shirt, and one rested partially on Waylon’s arm, long fingers loosely gripping his wrist. Burns moved onto his side then, and rested his head on his other hand.

Waylon moved yet closer to him and slid his hands around Burns. Burns moved his own hands to accommodate the position.

Burns gazed at him, and leaned in closer. Waylon tilted his head, revelled in their quiet intimacy, Burns’ touch that electrified him.

Later

They sat sipping tea on a balcony off one of the parlours; this one looked over the grounds and gardens. The late afternoon was brisk and clear. There was no wind except a small breeze that enhanced rather than intruded. 

Burns’ hand fell on top of his not holding the teacup on the seat they shared. Waylon set the cup down and turned more towards Burns, taking his fingers gingerly, in a relaxed manner. Burns leaned towards him, resting his head back against the cushion of the seat. He closed his eyes.

“Are you tired?” Waylon asked.

Burns opened his eyes again and shifted his head. “No. I just thought it would do good to relax some; we’ve been rather occupied lately. Though, if we had stayed in my bed I may have fallen asleep, which I don’t want to do.”

“Oh.”

Burns asked then, “Do you think time travel is possible?”

“…What?”

“I would have said no, but, as things are…” Burns gestured to himself, “what do you think?”

“Of you? I think you’re very enchanting.”

Burns sighed. “That’s not what I’m asking. I know you like to gaze at me, but _do_ pay attention.”

“I knew what you were asking.”   
“Yes, I know, just answer the question.”

“I guess it’s possible,” Waylon said seriously, “since you’ve sort of time travelled in age. But I think it would be a lot more complicated.” He studied Burns’ profile. “What were you thinking about?”

“To place my age to a time. If everything had gone backwards, we would be in another era, though I am not sure which year precisely… somewhere in the twenties, perhaps.” He sighed again, though not from irritation, perhaps yearning. “It is just a thought.” 

“It’s an interesting thought.” Waylon thought of his dream in Paris, but didn’t want to mention it.

“Hm.”

They sat for a while. Waylon felt Burns slowly relaxing further towards him, and he settled back, letting Burns rest against him.

Eventually they returned inside. Waylon had left his phone in the parlour and now he picked it up, checking his mail when he saw he had a notification from his personal email account. One email from his friend caught his attention. It detailed a dinner party invitation.

He turned to Burns. “How would you feel about meeting my friends?”  
“Your friends?”  
“I was invited to a dinner next Saturday, and I can bring someone.”

Burns raised an eyebrow. “I see.” Then he asked, “What sort of dinner is it?”

“Mostly casual. I mean, it’s formal, but the atmosphere isn’t, it’s not like the gala,” Waylon said, thinking back on the previous dinners and parties. “The person who’s hosting- he’s not as rich as you, but he has a nice house and kitchen. He always puts together these gourmet menus. I think he’s from France.”

Burns nodded. “And your friends- are they all-”

“Most of them are gay or otherwise LGBTQ, yes.” He wondered if Burns knew what that acronym meant. “I’m not sure exactly who will be there.”

“Hm. Next Saturday, you said?”

“Yes. Seven-thirty. I have the address too.” Burns seemed to be considering. “We don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Waylon added.

“I did not imply that…” Burns placed a hand on the table. “I will take your invitation.”

“Oh. Right, I’ll let him know.” Waylon scrolled in the email and clicked ‘yes’ on the invitation and also on ‘guest(s)’- 1. He was surprised that Burns had said yes, but realised maybe he shouldn’t have been, considering how far they had come already. Still, this would be an event with a number of people Burns wasn’t familiar with, who would likely think of him as Waylon’s partner.

“I had the strangest dream last night,” Burns announced as they were eating dinner, outside, that evening. They sat across from one another at the smaller table, closer together than they would have been in Burns’ dining room. They ate from plates of duck, roasted asparagus, and rice pilaf.

“Oh?” Waylon took a sip of wine.

Burns wrinkled his nose. “I had the displeasure of watching a version of myself who became subservient to Eloise. I did not enjoy it, and I could not do anything but watch.” He shivered. “I never wanted to imagine that sort of scenario, not now…” He gazed at Waylon, his expression softening, his chin resting on his hand. He moved rice around on his plate.

“Monty…?”

Burns looked up. “Hm? I’m fine. How do you find the duck?”  
“It’s very good.” He took his knife and cut off a piece. “The sauce too.” Did Burns only want to discuss the flavour of the duck, then? What else had he been thinking? “Are there, er, any other details of your dream you want to share?”

“Hm…” Burns twirled a hair around his finger. “There’s not many details to tell, I’m afraid…” He shivered. “I- he, this other version, was a meek, cowardly ninny. He gave into everything she wanted at once. But- he looked miserable, as I saw, I remember… and I suppose I would have been too, had I stayed that course. You were nowhere in sight, either.”

He sighed, shook his head. “What a tragedy that would have befallen me. I do wish I had never caught a glimpse of her. That I did not know her name or of her existence. But… that is behind us now.”

Burns smiled at last, and leaned over the table, took Waylon’s hands, his hair falling forward. The table was just small enough that they were able to lean together in the centre without much awkward positioning between them. Waylon met him halfway, Burns’ lips pressed over and under his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	13. Part 12: Experiences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The week before the dinner party. Developments with Tim from the Enquirer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again that this took so long to upload! I've been a bit busy as I said before. But here we are!

The week leading to the dinner was eventful. They went to the plant one day, and Burns fired a few people; some of the workers had become irresponsible and entirely reckless in the wake of Burns’ second sick leave, about which he was understandably angry.

At home, (he hadn’t been to his apartment for a while; someone had been taking care of his dog, and then he just brought it to Burns’ house) Waylon witnessed Burns gradually become more comfortable with their intimacy, reaching a point where they began to indulge each other further.

Waylon woke most mornings beside Burns, which he thought he would never tire of. They’d lay there in the sheets and blankets before the eventual task of getting up and going to work set upon them, as they delayed the inevitable.

One morning they lay still in the quiet, Burns’ head resting against Waylon’s chest. “We can go in late,” he mused, his eyes closed.

Waylon, his fingers through Burns’ hair, was still half asleep himself. “Mm.”

“Ah, Waylon…” Burns murmured, “I’ve forgotten… it’s Sunday.” He continued, drowsily, “perhaps we can just sleep, then… how does that sound…?”

Waylon gently pulled him closer. Burns started, and Waylon opened his eyes, though his vision was blurred without his glasses. Burns only blinked and closed his eyes again, and soon his soft snores lulled Waylon back to sleep.

They went out a few times together, to restaurants and other public locales. The first time they went out on an actual date, Waylon drove himself and Burns to an Italian restaurant outside of Springfield.  
“You do not mind driving? I could have someone take us there,” Burns offered before they left. They stood together in Burns’ foyer.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind.”

Burns nodded, and his eyes flitted over Waylon, his demeanour genial. “You… er, look rather dapper in that jacket. It brings out your eyes.”

Waylon blushed. “You look perfect, as usual.”

Burns laughed. “Yes, you would say such.”

Waylon could hardly believe they were going out, at last.

At the restaurant, they arrived before the time for which they’d made reservations; Waylon went to the host’s desk to resolve the discrepancy. A few passer-by glanced at them as a waiter sat them in the dining room, but none bothered them. Waylon wondered how many of those people had read the article.

The menu had an extensive wine selection; he set it down to ask Burns’ opinion. But Burns was occupied, his eyes on something else in the room, his body twisted. He seemed anxious, his brow creased.

“Monty? What are you looking at?”

At his name, Burns turned around and grasped Waylon’s hand across the table. “We… should go.”

“What? Why? Do you not like the restaurant?”

“No, that is not the issue. Look.”

Waylon didn’t understand what Burns was referring to at first. But then, ahead of them to the right, at one of the restaurant’s many white cloth covered tables, a familiar woman with blond curls was sat with some man. A dull anger coursed through him at the sight of her. Waylon had hoped never to see Eloise again. “What is _she_ doing here?”

“She is on a date, I suppose,” Burns muttered, “I pity the man who sits beside her. It’s not Alan, hm… I suppose she broke relations with him? Poor bastard.”

“We can go somewhere else to eat.”

“Post-haste, let’s go elsewhere, before she takes notice of us if she hasn’t already.”

Outside the restaurant, Burns exhaled, closed his eyes. “I’ve no desire to interact with such a woman ever again. I…”

Waylon nodded. “Me neither. Do you think she saw us?”

“I don’t know.” Burns took his hand. “But… thank you, Waylon.”  
“For what?”

Burns pushed his hair behind his ear, his cheeks spotted with light from the restaurant’s exterior, layering the blush with a yellow tinge. “For… for what we have now. I find it fulfilling, it is a relief after… what occurred with her.” He gestured back inside.

Waylon smiled, happy to gaze at him, feelings in the open and accepted and reciprocated by Burns. “I feel the same way.”

“Mm.” Burns laughed softly. “Let’s-”

“ _Monty_.”   
Burns froze. Slowly, he turned his head back towards the restaurant entrance. Waylon held onto his hand as he felt Burns’ fingers curl around his own. Why had they come to this particular restaurant? The one where _she_ happened to be?

“I knew that was you.” Eloise stood next to the man she was evidently on a date with; he seemed uncomfortable. Waylon could imagine why.   
“ _Ms Fleming_. What do you want?”

Eloise placed her hands on her hips. “What are you doing here?”

“Does it matter to you so? As I recall, you and I have parted ways, and I have no interest in speaking to you.”   
“Let’s go,” Waylon murmured, tugging at him gently, “it’s not worth your time.”

“So you’re dating _him_ now?” Eloise asked Burns, looking at their joined hands.

Burns glared, pursing his lips. “I… I _am_ , yes,” he declared, “Do you take issue with that?” Burns shook his head, then said to Waylon, “Yes, let us leave.”

Eloise may have continued speaking, but Burns pulled Waylon along, away from the restaurant and back to the car, Waylon following willingly.

“Are you alright?” he asked once they were sat inside.

Burns nodded, placing his hands in his lap. “I am now. Rather unfortunate that we unknowingly chose the same locale as she had.”

“It was,” Waylon agreed, starting the engine, “but…” He glanced at Burns, thoughts of Eloise slipping from his mind. He placed his hand on Burns’ shoulder. Burns turned towards him, and Waylon brushed a few hairs from Burns’ fringe from his eyes. Burns’ eyes followed his fingers, then returned to look at him, clearing his throat; Waylon wrapped his hands around Burns’ shoulders and waist, brought his lips to Burns’.   
  


They found a different restaurant, one similar to the previous in terms of cuisine and décor. This menu had more varieties of wine as well, so that was a bonus, Waylon decided.

The waitress brought them bread with olive oil after taking their meal orders. At one point, Burns leaned forward for the bread, and by the soft, dimmed light of the room glinted a small, mostly undone braid, hanging in front of his ear.

“Did you braid your hair?”

Burns stopped and pushed the hair back behind his ear with his index finger. “I was… experimenting.”

“I thought it looked nice.”

Burns waved his hand. Waylon smiled and handed him bread.

The restaurant, located in downtown Springfield, was not far from a park. It was almost nine; only a few others were about. Waylon pointed out that one path curved and circled towards whence they had come, so they wouldn’t have to backtrack to return to the car, which was sat near the restaurant.

Occasional lamps illuminated the path on which they walked hand in hand. Burns’ countenance was relaxed, inviting. He seemed genuinely happy, for them to be there together.

Burns stopped walking and tilted his head up.

“What is it?”

“The moon,” he said, “you can see it through this clearing in the trees, it looks rather lucid tonight, yes?”

The moon shone near golden, almost in full. The night air bristled in the trees. A scent lifted from the earth, running across the breeze, made everything around him seem more real, raw, serene. He wondered if Burns felt the same.

“Do you remember when we jogged the grounds of the manor that night before we went to the bar?” Burns asked. When Waylon nodded, he said, “I am reminded of that now. I feel as if I am… I am not certain how to articulate… as if I live again. There are moments we have passed in which I felt similarly… It is as if, sometimes, I am dreaming.”

He paused. Waylon didn’t say anything, wondering if he would continue. “That first night, I feared that I would wake the next morning and find I returned to my previous state, but that has not happened. Still, it is often that I am incredulous that this- that I, as I am now- exist.” He smiled, laughed. “Truly, I sometimes feel as if I am not here, that I dream and will wake suddenly to the mundanity of my previous life.”

“I think it’s amazing, however it happened.”

“How it happened, yes…” Burns tapped his chin with his free hand. “And do you have any ideas?”

“Not really.” He thought of the photograph, but he didn’t have a coherent theory yet. “The photograph, maybe, had something to do with it, but I don’t know how.”

“Neither do I. But I have speculated… there has always been something peculiar about that photograph. I’ve wondered sometimes if it was haunted.”  
“Haunted? But… you’re still alive.”

“Yes, it is still quite unclear, but…” He sighed, gazing up at the moon. “But perhaps it holds some piece of me, my original spirit of youth, if that is coherent…”

Waylon furrowed his brow. “I think so. Like a spirit or ghost of your youth that possessed the photo. And then what, it… made you like you are?”

“I’ve no idea,” Burns admitted, “it is possible. A loose theory, for now.” He took some steps forward. “But let’s go on, now, with our walk.”

In terms of Tim Dall, the degenerate who had written the tabloid article, Waylon used the information he had received from the assistant editor in chief Josh, calling the number listed. It was Thursday evening. Burns sat next to him. The line rang a few times.

“Yeah? Who is this?”

“Are you Tim Dall?”  
“Again, who are you? And yeah.” Tim cleared his throat.

“My name is… Watson Smith-” Beside him, Burns looked amused at the alias. But he didn’t know what else to use.   
“Okay, Mr Smith, why are you calling me?” It seemed Tim hadn’t been told about Mr Smith visiting the _Enquirer_ ’s offices.

“You work for the _Springfield Enquirer_?”  
“What is this about? Yes, I do.”  
“The article you wrote about Mr Burns, I wanted to know more about that.”

“Oh, the article. You don’t… work for Burns, do you?”

“No.” His tone was adamant. “I don’t.”  
“I just don’t want to get involved in anything if I don’t have to, if you were calling to sue me. If you want to sue anyone, sue the paper.”  
“I don’t work for him. I’ve never even met him. But I was interested in the article…” He glanced at Burns and elaborated, “since he’s kind of mysterious, and your article showed otherwise, so I wanted to know how you got those photos… it’s kind of impressive you were able to do that all.” Burns rolled his eyes at the empty flattery. 

Tim still sounded reluctant to trust him. “What is it you do, Smith? You work for a paper, too? I’ll talk to you if you aren’t from the _Star_.” Waylon figured that was a rival publication. 

“No, I work in finances. Private firm, we make contracts with companies,” he lied. “My co-worker reads the Enquirer and I saw your article. I wanted to know who wrote it, so I called the office.” That last part was true enough.

“Okay, I believe you, I guess. What do you want to know?”

They wanted to meet with Tim in person, thinking it would be easier. “Could we talk somewhere? I don’t think this is the best way to do it.”

“Uh… if you really want to, we could meet at the coffee place on 6th or something… You’re in Springfield now?”   
“Yes.”

“When are you free? I have time tomorrow after twelve thirty.”  
“Twelve forty-five, then?”

“Sure… I’ll be near the door when you walk in.”

“Right. Thanks.”  
“Yeah.”  
Waylon ended the call, sighing. Burns looked at him and laughed. “Finances?”  
“It’s part of the cover.”  
Burns nodded. “Yes, yes, excellent deception.” He moved closer and crept his fingers along Waylon’s shoulder, and up his neck, going over the side of his face. “Am I really so mysterious?” he teased. “You know me well.”

“You have a certain elusive quality.”

“I suppose I do.”

Next day

The coffee shop downtown on 6th was one he had been in a few times, but without Burns. They had arrived before Waylon had agreed to meet with Tim so they might have the upper hand in preparation. Burns would sit at another table and Waylon would pretend they didn’t know each other. Waylon hadn’t put much thought into a disguise, since he had already shown up at the Enquirer in his normal attire, but he had tried to look the part of a financial advisor and even worn different glasses with less bold frames and a tie, which he didn’t like to do.

However, Burns had gone a bit further. He had tied back his hair and wore a leather jacket over a turtleneck sweater, even though it was warmer outside. He also wore white trousers and dark leather laced up shoes. He had even put on glasses, ones with giant frames that made his face smaller and along with everything else made him mostly unrecognisable. Waylon approved despite its probably unnecessary nature. He wouldn’t mind if Burns wore that sort of outfit more regularly.

By now Burns was sitting inside, reading a book; on the table was a drink of some sort. Waylon looked at his watch. It was twelve-thirty. His plan was to circle around the block and come back, at which time Tim would be at the table ‘near the door where you walk in’.

When he returned to his starting point at the coffee shop, Waylon glanced inside, a blurry figure was seated near the door. The glass of the window was thick, frosted, and did not provide a clear view.

Not sure what he was getting into, Waylon opened the door, triggering a bell above the door. He scowled to himself at the noisy entrance, feeling self-conscious, and looked to his left as the smell of coffee and clinking of dishes, silverware, settled around him.

The table specified as their meeting spot indeed had its occupant, who at the bell had looked up. Waylon didn’t make eye contact yet and pretended to peruse the take-out menus near the door. He peeked at the table. He had seen this man before, somewhere… with a start, he recognised the face of the bartender from the Galley Reel. The one with whom he had had a brief interaction, who had told him Burns, at the time drunk, was getting carried away. He couldn’t believe ‘Tim’ and this bartender were the same person. But that presented an issue, if Tim saw through his rudimentary disguise and recognised him from the bar.

Carefully, Waylon put away the menu and took out his phone, texting Burns: It’s bartender from where we were. He’s Tim.

Slipping into his alias at last, Waylon approached the table.

“Yes?”

“Hi. Are you Tim?”

“Oh. You must be Smith. Sit down.” Tim gestured to the other chair. Waylon sat, the chair scraping on the floor. “It’s nice to meet you.” He dropped a copy of the Enquirer issue on the table. “I brought it along in case you wanted to ask specific questions about the article. I appreciate your interest in it. You haven’t read anything else I wrote, have you?”  
“I wouldn’t know, they don’t print the authors. I called about this one because I thought it was very… insightful.” A tabloid, insightful? Waylon shuddered inwardly at his own proclamation.   
“Right, right. You know, I’ve written some other things, if you wanted to check it out sometime.”   
“Maybe, thanks.”   
Tim signalled to a passing waiter and ordered an espresso; Waylon, who had eaten little so far, ordered an omelette and regular coffee. His phone vibrated, and he looked down at it.

Monty: Yes, I see. An unexpected development, I imagine his dual positions as barkeep and ‘journalist’ were useful that night. Let’s hope he doesn’t recognise you.

“So, anyway,” Tim continued, and Waylon put away his phone, “I don’t normally do this sort of meet up, but first time for everything, I guess. You wanted to know how I got the pictures too, right?”

“Er- yeah, they were pretty good shots. Did you take them?”

“Yes, I did. I try to take clear pictures, but it can be difficult, especially in the dark, even inside. I actually pull a few shifts myself in that bar,” Tim said, leaning forward with a slightly smug expression, “and I was there to witness it. So what happened was, there were these two guys- one of them reminds me of you, kind of, but not really- and the one gets drunk off his ass. Boss tells me to find the other guy and make them leave. I find him outside, and do you know what he tells me?”  
Waylon knew exactly what he had told Tim. “What?”

“The drunk one was Burns, the power plant guy, who has, like, way too much money, but he’s a pretty boy, and all these people think he’s hot shit. And he’s hardly ever in this kind of situation, or I would’ve heard about it. It was too interesting to not document, I mean, you know? People would love to see Burns knocked off his throne some. And originally, I was just going to talk about that, but then I talked to a bunch of people, customers, and I find out Burns and the other guy are doing it. I had to write about that too.”  
Waylon was ready to drop the act and punch him in the face. “How do you know they were actually together?”

“It was obvious, Burns would never say outright, but it made sense. Apparently, the other guy was Burns’ assistant, who does everything for him, and is rumoured to have been pining for Burns, so that was a big sign. What did they say his name was… Smithers? Yeah. Weird name. I wrote about some of the individual people I talked to in the article. So I took some pictures as they were leaving, and Burns was shouting about having a ‘gay evening’… it was something else. I took the pictures and then this guy at the bar, orange vest, I wrote about him- he asks what I’m doing, and I talk with him until my boss yells at me. I clocked out a half hour later and talk with more people, then I went home and wrote the article. It made it into this issue, the next day, which was good, ‘cause then I didn’t have to wait until the next issue.”

Waylon was fuming, but fought to keep his anger from showing. Their food arrived, and he tried to concentrate on that, since he was hungry. His eating stalled their conversation, if only a little. He was angry at himself, too, for having revealed Burns’ identity to Tim that night, in their short interaction, but he supposed it didn’t matter, since someone else probably would have identified Burns instead. Still, Tim only took the pictures because he knew it was Burns, from Waylon.

“You good, Smith?”   
Waylon nodded. “Fine. Just… thinking about a client I have. Were you concerned you were going to lose your job at the bar, since you got in trouble?”

“Not really, I don’t even work there full time. My boss is okay, usually.”

“How often do you do reporter work while you’re still on the clock there?”

“Again, not much, to stay under the radar.” Tim sipped his coffee. “Have I answered your questions?”

He had, Waylon now knew how Tim had taken the photos and written the article, which was what he had wanted to learn. But there still remained the matter of retribution…

“Would you write another article like that if you had the chance?”

“You mean, about Burns? Yeah, probably. I write about whatever I think will do well.”  
“Even if it’s not necessarily true?”  
“Smith,” Tim said, as if he were scolding, “you and I both know people don’t care what is ‘true’ or not. It’s true enough. What is truth, anyway? What I write is entertaining, and interesting, and true enough.” He continued, “I thought you liked the article?”

“I did,” Waylon assured, “I still think you put a lot of effort into writing and producing it, even taking the pictures. I was only asking what you thought, after the fact.”

Tim seemed suspicious but less so. “Right. Well, unless there’s something else…”

“No, nothing else, thank you for meeting me.”   
“Sure.” Tim stood and put a few bills at his place. “See you, Smith.”   
“Bye.” Waylon returned to eating his half-finished omelette, waiting for Tim to disappear completely before he relaxed and picked up his phone.

What do you want to do now? I got all the info we wanted from him.

Burns replied seconds later.

Monty: Finish eating, leave, and then walk around again for a few minutes. Go to the car and wait for me. Don’t start it. I will be there in fifteen minutes after you leave here. Then we shall pay visits to both the Enquirer and the bar- as ourselves.  
  


A moment after: Well done, Waylon.

Waylon smiled and typed back, Thank you.

Obeying Burns’ instruction, Waylon ate the rest of his food, paid, and left the shop. He took a few minutes to wander the street, thinking about what Burns meant. After his second trip around, he made for the car. As he walked, he began to feel uneasy, though he didn’t know why. There weren’t a lot of people around. The weather was perfectly normal. Everything was fine.

Until, without warning, he was yanked backwards and into an alleyway.


	14. Part Thirteen: View Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion to last chapter's cliffhanger, as well as the interim before the dinner party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting towards the last chapters, I suppose. BUT I am planning a sequel to this story! So it is not the end!

Waylon’s first thought was of Burns. If something happened to him here, Burns wouldn’t know and then he would get to his car, still some blocks away, and Waylon would be missing, unless Burns happened to walk by this alley, but Waylon didn’t know if he would take the same street.

Then he came back to the present. He was against the wall on the uneven, cracked ashy pavement of the alley. And in front of him, keeping him from leaving, was none other than Tim Dall, whose hand was pressed flat on the wall right next to Waylon.

“ _Tim_?” Waylon sputtered, “What the hell are you doing?”

Tim narrowed his gaze. “I knew I had seen you before. It’s _you_ , isn’t it? You’re Smithers. You lied to me.”

_Damn it_. At least he had no reason to pretend any longer. “Yes, I am.”

“What was that back at the coffee place? Your whole act, you’re more than _working_ for Burns.” Tim snorted. “Jeez…” 

Waylon glared at him. “You should never have written that article.”

“You can’t tell me what I can or can’t write.”

“If you didn’t want to chance getting on Mon- Mr Burns’ bad side, you shouldn’t have done it.”   
“What, did he send you after me or something?” Tim wrinkled his nose. “I told you last night, if you want to sue, do it to the Enquirer.”

Waylon despised the nerve of him to not care at all, and to pin all the blame on the paper, despicable as it was. It was more so only Tim for writing it and Paul for approving it. “What did you think would happen if you printed garbage and Mr Burns got hold of it? There is no reason we cannot sue you for defamation. It is not only me that you would have to deal with.” He thought of Burns’ team of lawyers. In reality, though, he was baiting Tim, because he had planned to go to the Enquirer and the bar to get Tim fired, citing the information he had learned during the conversation in the coffee shop. Burns had said he would like that Tim would cease any future articles about him and/or Waylon, and had asked Waylon to take care of that.

“Well, what do you want, then?” The gravity of the situation seemed to be sinking in. Waylon smirked. “You can’t write anything else about either of us, or if you do… just don’t.”

“Is that all?”

“Quit the Enquirer, and while you’re at it, the bar too.” That would make his and Burns’ lives easier. He thought about what Josh at the _Enquirer_ had said about Tim’s incompetence, and then what Tim himself had said about not doing his job at Galley Reel.

“I didn’t like that place. Didn’t like the goddamned bar either. Both shit pay. You’re doing me a favour.”  
“What will you do instead?”

“I don’t know. My cousin said she’d hook me up with a gig in Philly.”  
“Philadelphia? Really?” He was genuinely curious- the city was rather far.   
“I write a blog online, but I don’t make anything from it.” Tim had stepped away from him, no longer as aggressive. “I was thinking of getting out of Springfield. Out of the state.”  
  


Waylon found himself agreeing. Sometimes he wanted to go elsewhere, himself, but he had no desire to move away from Burns. “Do that, then. But if you-”

“Fine. I told you, I won’t write anymore about you or him. I don’t want to now. Kind of ruined it, since you’ve interfered.” Tim shoved his hands in his pockets.

Waylon tensed, waiting to make a break for it, though Tim’s disposition had mollified. “I- I’m going to go,” Waylon told him, “remember what I said.” He glanced a last time at Tim, brushed himself off, and ran out of the alley before Tim could change his mind, or his behaviour, again.

It had passed much more than fifteen minutes.

Burns was sitting inside the car in the driver’s seat when Waylon reached it. He rolled down the window upon seeing Waylon, frowning. “ _Where_ have you been?”

“I had some trouble.”

Burns unlocked the doors of the car. “Elaborate,” he demanded as Waylon got inside, “I was waiting for over a half hour. I was going to drive off without you.” Waylon knew he wouldn’t do any such thing.

“I was walking to the car and I saw Tim again. Er, rather, he pulled me into an alley, and I was kind of stuck against the wall. He confronted me.”  
“Did he?” Burns scowled. “How abhorrent of him. Are you hurt?” His eyes moved over Waylon’s person.

“No. But he figured out who I was. He was angry I had lied to him about my identity and about the coffee shop thing. But he didn’t hurt me.”  
“And then?” Burns turned the key in the ignition, starting the car.

“He told me to sue the _Enquirer_ instead of him, but I told him we could easily sue him for defamation. He seemed to understand he couldn’t abdicate responsibility like that. I told him he was never allowed to write anything else about either of us. He has to quit his jobs.”  
Burns nodded. “I see. And is he going to do that?”  
Waylon gauged that Tim’s reaction to being told to quit his jobs hadn’t been as dramatic as Burns would have liked. “Yes, because he knows otherwise he would be fired- I would make sure of it, he’s incompetent as it is- but he’s going to move away.”  
“Away from Springfield?”  
“Yes. I think to Philadelphia.”

“Hm. Very well.” Burns stopped at a red light, slamming the brake. Waylon flinched. Burns’ driving had room for improvement. “I think you should contact both places of work either later today or tomorrow to confirm he actually quit, I do not trust his word.”

“Good idea.”

On Friday, Waylon called the bar and the _Enquirer_ , this time as himself, aligning with Burns, and asked if Tim had quit. Burns had also requested he demand the Enquirer never write another word about him, or Waylon, for any reason.

Apparently, at the bar, Tim had caused a heated row, possibly incidental, with his managers, finishing with a declaration of quitting. As for the _Enquirer_ , Tim had shown up on time that morning, for once, and told Paul he was leaving, with some choice words. According to the receptionist he had also taken the coffee machine. Waylon spoke to Paul, who agreed vehemently they wouldn’t print anymore stories involving Burns, or him.

Waylon relayed the news to Burns, who was satisfied with the turn of events. Tim had made a fool of himself without their assistance.

Now the dinner at Damien’s was the next day, Saturday. Burns wanted to go clothes shopping, and he wanted Waylon to get something as well. Burns had decided he wanted something new for the occasion, though in reality he had already an enormous supply of clothing in his closet. They went to some of the more expensive, upscale stores in the area, stores to which Burns liked to go sometimes for their alignment with his often-extravagant, unconventional, tastes. 

Waylon stood in front of the dressing room mirror in a suit jacket and pants Burns had told him to try on, after Burns had had him try on three other things. If he stared at his reflection long enough, though, his head began to hurt, so he tried to only glance in it a few times. And every headache he’d experienced, all the way back to the first day here, had been related to looking into mirrors or reflective surfaces…

The clothes were semi-formal, more appropriate for the dinner party than a full suit or a tuxedo as they’d worn to the gala. The jacket was a deep warm grey colour with black silk lining. It was sturdy but not heavy or stifling to wear, fine for the warming weather outside. The pants, black, complemented it, and were also made of some light material.

Burns’ jacket was similar in style, but with a different lapel; a houndstooth pattern decorated the light grey fabric. His pants were also black, being a different shade than Waylon’s.

“I like that one,” Waylon told him, “it’s different from the others you were looking at.”

“Yes, I like it.” Burns’ eyes examined him, his lip curling. “I think that jacket works well for you. However…”  
Waylon expected Burns to say he should try on something else, but Burns only approached him and tugged on the fabric of the jacket, smoothing out creases, his hands running along Waylon’s form. “It looked a bit… unkempt.” 

“Is that all you were doing? I thought it looked okay before.”

“Certainly, we can’t have you looking anything but your best.” Burns blinked as if it were natural. “What are you implying?”

Without answering, Waylon looked around. They were the only people in the dressing-room vicinity; the attendants had left them alone to try things on. They wouldn’t come in unless asked. He had an idea.

“Wouldn’t that also apply to you? You should look your best.”  
Burns reddened. “Yes, it- ” He paused, looking down at himself. “I suppose there are a few things I could do here…”

“I can help you with that,” Waylon said.

“I am sure you could, but...” Burns frowned, tilted his head, but seemed open to whatever Waylon had planned, not straying from their closeness.

Waylon grasped Burns’ waist with his arm, and his other hand moved to go over a few minor creases on the jacket. Then, deviating from what Burns had done to him, he crept around and brought his hand slowly up Burns’ back, under the jacket and shirt, still holding him by the waist. Burns gasped when Waylon touched the bare skin. He shed the jacket entirely and gripped Waylon’s arm. Waylon pulled him forward and stroked his face, neck, hair, before kissing him, his tongue in Burns’ mouth.

Several scenarios involving Burns either on top of him, mostly underneath him, rushed through his head, but this dressing room wasn’t the place to do that sort of activities, and they did not stay much longer in their impromptu reverie.

They bought the clothes, and, having what they’d come for, went back to Burns’ house.

Walking inside the manor, Waylon passed a mirror on the wall and turned to it, wondering if anything would happen this time. As he stood there, a sharp pain in his head made him feel as if something were trying to push against his skull. He grimaced, pulling away from his reflection, his hand on his head.

“What happened to you?” Burns asked, having stopped walking, and approached him, his brow creased.

“My head…” He moved away from the mirror, stopped again, and shut his eyes, the ache slowly subsiding. When he opened his eyes he found Burns next to him, frowning. “It happened at the store, too, when I look in the mirror, or any reflective surface, I get these headaches, if I looked for more than about ten seconds. I don’t know why, this only started to happen from the first day we were… here. I had headaches the day you… _changed_ , but sometimes I have them in the mornings, so I didn’t think about it much. But then I had them again and again, through the time with Eloise and after that to now. And they’ve gotten worse. I don’t know what these headaches are, with the mirrors.”

“I must tell you, then, I’ve had the same experiences,” Burns said, and Waylon raised his eyebrows, “I too have headaches when I look at myself, I do not understand it, either. That morning, when I, as you said, changed, and I saw myself for the first time in my mirror, I had a horrible ache, and it only intensified as I remained there. I couldn’t stand it for long. I have tried to avoid mirrors after it happened a few times.” He seemed tired.

“I wonder why we’re both having them, for the same reasons. It’s very strange,” Waylon said, “There’s nothing about looking in a mirror that should give us headaches.”

“Yes, I have looked in mirrors all my life, and this began that morning, as it seems it did for you… Do you still have pain, now?”

“It’s going away.” Waylon was grateful for his concerns, but also wished neither of them had to deal with the mirror issue. It didn’t make sense. 

To avoid any further pain, they began to act as each other’s mirrors, in a way, pointing things out if necessary. If they did use a mirror it would be only for several seconds. If the headaches weren’t so prevalent perhaps they could stand to use the mirror’s reflections, but that wasn’t the case.

The night of the dinner arrived. As they prepared for it, and helped each other, Burns asked Waylon questions about his friends, wanting details on each of them. Waylon didn’t give him extensive information, but did give some on the people he knew would be at the dinner, who had confirmed throughout the week.

“I told you about the host-”

“The one from France?”  
“Yes, Damien.”

“How does his cooking compare to yours?”

“My cooking isn’t anything special,” Waylon said.   
“I would disagree.”  
Waylon blushed. “Well, Damien went to culinary school- the Cordon Bleu, I think.”

“I see. And he is in _Springfield_ rather than, say, running a restaurant in Paris? Having the prestige of the Michelin stars?”

“He didn’t want to do that. He likes cooking for people, but not in a restaurant setting. He travels between here and France, though.”

“Mm. Who else? You mentioned Henry and… the one who writes self-help books.” Burns picked up a hairbrush from the counter and began to run it through his hair, holding multiple strands in his other hand at a time. He sat down on the bed.

“That was Grant. Er… John will be there, he’s really social, he likes to talk with people. I don’t always know everyone, though. Damien has a few he always invites, like me, but he brings in new people too.” He watched Burns, wanting to be the one to brush his hair, or to card through it with his fingers. He flashed back to Eloise and the scissors. She had been delusional, Burns’ hair was silky and soft, and beautiful… Waylon sighed.

Burns paused mid-brush and looked at Waylon, then the brush itself. “Oh,” he said, “why didn’t I tell you before? Come and brush my hair, will you? You have always been quite good with… assisting me.”

Waylon swallowed and took the brush from Burns’ outstretched hand.

“Sit down, then,” Burns told him, “no sense in standing, hm?”  
Waylon sat himself on the bed next to Burns, who turned his body to give Waylon better access. His hair, a light brown, spilled over his shoulders and ended in slight curls.

“I trust you will be gentle,” he said, glancing at Waylon over his shoulder; he was facing away from him. Waylon nodded, and raised the brush, slowly combing through Burns’ hair. He knew well enough how to be gentle with Burns, having done so much for him before, though this was different.   
Waylon loosely held strands of hair, as Burns had been doing, and let them fall through his fingers as he moved on to a different section. He wasn’t worried about taking too much time; they still had almost an hour until the dinner began. Burns would appreciate the attentive gesture, too, in some manner.

When he felt he had brushed all of Burns’ hair, he said, “Is there anything else you want me to do?”

Burns turned around towards him again. “You were very thorough, weren’t you?” He took the brush back from Waylon’s hand and laid it aside. “There are some things you could do for me, but I’d rather wait until we return here for that, you understand, our other activities.”  
“Which… sorts of things?”

Burns smiled, and laughed rather nervously. “Oh, dear Waylon, I was referring to our time in bed… I was considering, last night... I had enjoyed when-“

“Oh,” Waylon said quickly, “of course…” Burns had expressed desire to for him to repeat certain manoeuvres, now that he thought about it.  
“Anyhow, I think what you’ve done is sufficient for now, it must be near time to leave. How long do we have?”

“It’s six fifty-three. It starts at seven-thirty, so we should leave at about ten after,” Waylon told him, looking at his watch. “Fifteen minutes.”

They left eight minutes after seven, Waylon driving. At previous parties like this he had brought some gift, so Burns had given him a bottle of Macallan scotch to take, saying he had a few others in his collection. The label said it was from 1940. It must have been worth a bit of money.

“Thank you for coming to this with me,” Waylon said as he drove, “I didn’t know if you would want to.”

Burns waved his hand. “I was interested. Your life has become intertwined with mine, far beyond being my assistant. I wouldn’t have refused, as it mattered to you.” He watched the sky as the sun set before them. “You do the same for me.” That was an understatement, Waylon did almost everything Burns wanted. The sentiment was not lost on him, though.

“Monty?”  
“Hm?”

They stopped at a red light. “I love you.”

“So you’ve told me.” The light changed. Burns said, quietly, “And I might… I love you.”

Some small voice in his head made him wonder if he had imagined Burns say it. But he hadn’t. Waylon kept driving automatically, staring straight ahead. But he couldn’t help his grin.

Later

Damien’s house lit the darkening sky like a beacon as Waylon slowed and parked the car amongst several others.

He turned off the vehicle and his gaze went to Burns, who had taken off his seat belt. “You…” _Did you mean what you said_ , he wanted to ask. But he also didn’t want to. “That is- you do?”

Burns gazed back, having deciphered the vague question. “Yes, I do. I care for you. I want you beside me. I’ve wanted to say what I feel, but I could not.”

“How long?”

“It took the change to make me re-examine the depth of my feelings for you. And this…” He gestured to himself, “this has truly changed me, not only physically. It was a rare chance to restart some… aspects of my life. I have had much time to think about myself, particularly when I was ill with fever, twice, and laid in bed.”   
“The letter…?”

Burns nodded. “That was the result of attempting to put it all to paper, that day. I was not certain of what I felt then, but… now we’ve been intimate many times and I feel as if I know you more, though I already knew you quite well.” Waylon had experienced similar; being so close to Burns, more than before, he felt he’d reached some understanding, a deeper comprehension of who Monty was. Burns finished, “And I came to the inevitable conclusion henceforth. I love you, Waylon.”

Waylon could have cried. Instead he leaned over and kissed Burns, embracing him, holding him, as Burns’ hands, arms, held him in return, caressed his face and body. And it was infinitely better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	15. Part 14: Dishonest Intrusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dinner party at Damien's and the next day. Strange things happen.

Damien himself greeted them at the front door, wearing an apron. “Waylon, hello, how are you? I apologise, I am finishing in the kitchen. Please, come in, almost everyone is here. We will eat in a half hour.”

“Hi, Damien. Thank you.”  
Damien nodded, stepped aside to let them into the foyer. His eyes landed on the scotch Waylon carried.   
“Is that… that is not Macallan?” he asked, seeming incredulous, the glass glinting by the interior light, illuminating its provenance.   
“Yes, it’s from 1940.” Waylon handed the bottle to him. “It’s a gift from me and… do you know Monty?”

Damien regarded Burns up and down. “Ah, I believe so, you are the proprietor of the nuclear plant, yes? I have heard your name in reference.”  
Burns drew himself together, straightening his posture. “Yes, I own the nuclear plant.”  
“Very interesting, hm…” Damien nodded. “Well, thank you again, both, this is a splendid gift.” He disappeared towards his kitchen again after that.

Waylon hadn’t been to Damien’s house for a few months. It wasn’t on the scale of Burns’, and hosted a different decorating and architectural style, leaning towards more modern motifs; it was impressive, nonetheless.

The party existed across the entire ground floor and basement, including Damien’s backyard, which allowed plenty of room to spread out. Waiters circulated with hors d’œuvres. Music emanated from somewhere, mixing with the cadences of the people standing or sitting about, talking.   
“Those fellows over there are waving to you,” Burns informed Waylon. Indeed, a couple of his friends stood over by the far wall of the room.

“That’s John and Henry.”  
“You want to talk with them, don’t you? Be cordial?”  
“Oh, yes…”  
“Come, then. Don’t stand here,” Burns said impatiently; Waylon followed him anyway.

John, a man of medium height scarcely taller than Waylon with black hair, stood holding a wine glass by the windows, next to Henry, who was blond and shorter than Burns, but just as slender.

“Waylon! I haven’t seen you since… I don’t know, maybe the last dinner,” John exclaimed, as Waylon exchanged quick embraces with his two friends.   
“Hey, Waylon,” Henry said, “good to see you here.”   
Waylon agreed. He noticed John and Henry had turned their attention to Burns, who in turn looked at Waylon pointedly.

“Er, this is Monty,” he announced, “Monty, John and Henry.”  
Burns nodded. “Gentlemen.”

John and Henry gave each other glances. They already knew that Waylon had been in love with Burns for ages. Now, it seemed to them that Burns had reciprocated, which was true.

John shook Burns’ hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Henry echoed similar. Then he asked, “So are you and Waylon together?”

“What do you-” Burns frowned, “ah, you mean are we partners, then, yes, we are together.”   
Waylon felt his heart swell at the declaration. He said to Burns, “I told them about you, er, a while ago.”

“Waylon talked about you a lot,” Henry added, “you run the power plant, right?”

“I do, yes.” Burns looked around. “Would any of you know where I might find the washroom?”

“There’s one down the hall where we came in,” Waylon said. John and Henry chimed in with other locations. Burns grasped Waylon’s arm for an instant before walking off, and he smiled, his manner still hesitant to display affection in front of other people. Waylon watched him go and then regarded his friends again.  
  


“Very nice, Waylon,” said Henry, “congratulations on getting together with him.”   
“So it was true, that thing in the _Enquirer_ tabloid?” John asked, “the part about you and him?”

“You… you saw that?” He had almost forgotten about the article, since they had dealt with Tim Dall already. 

“My boyfriend did.”  
“The one who lives in _Thailand_?” Waylon couldn’t believe the article would have reached another state, let alone another country.  
“No, that was over last month. It was too much, him being so far away. This one’s right in Springfield. He couldn’t come tonight though.”   
“What tabloid?” Henry asked.  
“The _Springfield Enquirer_ ,” John told him.  
“Oh. It’s awful.” 

“Yeah, it was really poorly written,” John continued, “But I was thinking then, if it was true, then at least you finally got together with Mr Burns. I’m glad that’s true.”

“Yes, I…” Waylon sighed. He had hoped the article hadn’t circulated much at all.

Suddenly there were hands on his shoulders. His heart skipped when he realised it was Burns. He turned, suddenly incredulous that he was here, with his friends, and Burns as his _date_ , as he grinned.

“What is that about?” Burns poked him. “You look strange.”   
“Oh, nothing… I’m just glad we’re here,” Waylon said, and Burns sighed but seemed to agree.

When it came time for dinner, they took their seats at the table. Burns surveyed the other guests around them, his fingers tapping lightly on the linen cloth. Waylon could watch him for a long time. He was more than glad that Burns was comfortable enough to do this. Where it was more than simply being together out on the street, or something; it was in company of Waylon’s friends and their respective partners.

Now he had caught Waylon gazing at him; his hand fell to his lap and he raised an eyebrow slightly. “What?”

“Nothing. Just admiring.”

Burns snorted, though Waylon saw the hint of a smile. “What is it we’re eating?” he asked then.

“Maybe duck, or beef, some sort of meat, I’m not sure what the entrée is either. I think some kind of soup or a salad.”

“Damien’s making soup, I know that much,” Henry said from across the table, “he doesn’t like to tell us in advance what he’s made. If he’s going full French we’ll probably have salad too, and all the other courses.”

“Mm.” Burns’ eyes were lidded, and he was looking at something; Waylon wasn’t sure what at. They made eye contact again and at once Burns sat back. “Can’t I also _admire_?” he asked.

Waylon knew he was blushing if so subtly. “Of course.”

As Henry had predicted, Damien was pulling out all the stops. Having had the hors d’œuvres already, they ate for the _entrée froide_ salad of endives, mushrooms, and grapefruit with Comte cheese and sesame seeds.

The potage, a soup _au Pistou_ , was brought out a few minutes later, along with bread. Waylon thought he had had something like it when he had travelled to Provence.

The soup was followed by skewered vegetables as the _entrée chaude_.

For the _plat principal_ , they were presented with _magret de canard au sauce chocolat et au vin rouge,_ duck breast.

Before dessert, Damien served several cheeses; dessert was a lemon tart. At last all that remained was coffee.

Throughout the meal, the distinct flavours and presentation of the different courses were, as everyone pointed out to Damien, incredible. He had outdone himself again. Waylon felt his own dining experience amplified by his sustained euphoria, caused by Burns simply being there next to him all night.

After the meal, people moved back to the chairs and sofas that dotted the house; some went to the basement, where Damien had a bar.

Waylon excused himself to use the toilets, leaving Burns with John and Henry. As he stood in front of the sink, he tried to avoid looking into the mirror right above. But he lifted his head and glanced into it anyway, as he was finishing, and not more than some seconds passed before he was met with one of the worst headaches he’d had recently. Grateful he was alone, Waylon tore from the sink and backed against the wall, trying to subdue the pain, his eyes closed, tears spilling from them. His head throbbed violently.

 _You knew what would happen if you looked_ , a voice in his head taunted, _Stupid._

He didn’t want to think right now. The voice persisted, and it did nothing to lessen the headache.

 _What are you doing? Do you think he really cares that much about you?  
_ Waylon found the continued taunting unusual: the voice seemed stronger than his normal thoughts of doubt and self-deprecation. Why was Burns brought up? _It’s never going to work with him,_ the voice continued. _This could be over in an instant. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t love you._

_He’ll never love you._

Waylon was confused but more so irritated, fearful of the unknown voice. He forced it down into silence, shuddering, and wondered what the hell that had been.

Was it now so bad that he couldn’t use a mirror at all without suffering pains? The voice didn’t seem like his own. Rather, it did, but it felt foreign, as if it didn’t belong. He didn’t know why he would suddenly be thinking those things about Burns. There was something strange and all too sudden about the way it had shown up in his head. Had Burns also had it happen to him, a voice in his head? Either way, Waylon wanted to talk with him about it.

Leaving the bathroom after he felt a bit better, he returned to the salon, where he’d left his friends and Burns, who were now chatting quietly together. They stopped when Waylon came over.

“Waylon, there you are,” Burns said, frowning, “what were you doing?”

“How long has it been?”

“Like twenty minutes,” John said, looking at his phone, “you okay?”

“I’m fine. I, er, saw someone who knew me on the way here and they started talking to me,” Waylon lied, “sorry I took so long.”

“Someone we know?” Henry asked.

“I don’t think so, they left after, anyway.” He met Burns’ eyes.

Waylon wanted to talk with Burns, alone, because he was the only other person who would understand what Waylon was going through with the mirrors. Only they knew there had been a time before, and how much had changed since. “Monty, could I talk to you for a second?”

Burns frowned again, his expression moving from irritation to slight concern, but nodded.   
“We’ll be back,” Waylon told his friends, and left with Burns at his side.   
  


Drawing away from the noise of the scattered crowd and leaning on his sparse knowledge of the layout of Damien’s house, Waylon led Burns into a mostly unoccupied library. The room’s lamps enticed a warm atmosphere, but Waylon felt rather cold even beside Burns, his experience with the mirror still alive in his mind.

“What is this about?” Burns asked, out of others’ earshot. He crossed his arms, but loosely, and looked up at Waylon.

“When I was in the bathroom, and I washed my hands, I accidentally looked in the mirror.”   
“I see. And what happened to you?” Burns’ expression softened. “Did you have another headache, or else worse?” he whispered.

“Yes.” Waylon sighed. “It… it was a lot worse than some of the other ones. All I did was glance at myself. It shouldn’t have been that bad.”  
“That is peculiar,” Burns agreed, “especially given the duration of time you looked into it, but did anything else happen?”

“There was this… voice in my head, while I had the headache,” Waylon said, “and it was different, more vocal and louder, and….”

“Was it not your own voice?”  
“It was, but it wasn’t, it didn’t feel right. It wasn’t _me_.” He didn’t know how to describe what he’d bore witness to.

“What did it say to you?”

“It just taunted me, tried to make me doubt myself. It told me ‘things wouldn’t work’ with you… with us. It was just- I don’t know what it was.”

Burns looked pensive. “And you are certain this wasn’t a normal voice? One that you’ve experienced before?”

“It didn’t feel like that. I don’t know what’s going on, but… I wanted to tell you.” He asked, “You believe me?”

Burns scoffed. “Of course I believe you. I’ve witnessed the impossible happen; we both seem to be tangled in this mirror conundrum, anyhow… I am surprised that there was a voice outside of your own, speaking to you, but I do not doubt your word.” He grasped Waylon’s hand, in effect anchoring him. Waylon leaned towards Burns, and touched his cheek, put his hair behind his ear. Burns huffed, but he smiled.

“I guess we should go back,” Waylon said, “we could leave soon if you’d like.”

“Yes, I can agree to that.”

They returned to the larger, more populated room and to John and Henry.

“Hi,” Waylon said, and coughed. “Didn’t mean to take long.” 

“It’s fine, Waylon,” John said, “oh! Before, when you were in the bathroom and all, we were talking about vacation houses...”

Henry nodded and added, “Yes, Monty told us about his summer house, which sounds amazing. You’ve been to my uncle’s ranch in Montana, right? I invited a bunch of you a few years ago in the summer.” Henry’s uncle had a ranch that he let his nephew use for vacationing while he was away.   
Waylon nodded, recalling the horses and the mountains they had hiked. Henry launched into a story about his uncle renovating the house. John described a villa in Thailand of his ex-boyfriend he’d been to once.

Though he enjoyed listening to his friends’ stories, Waylon felt uneasy, uncomfortable with having no answers as to the problem with the mirrors. He couldn’t enjoy himself. Burns seemed ill at ease; he made conversation enough, but he was on edge, his stance tense and his movements shifting minutely.

John left around ten, and Henry soon after; Waylon hadn’t seen Grant around. He said hello to a few others he knew, and thanked Damien for having them. He didn’t want to linger.

“In light of what has been happening to us,” Burns said as they walked back to the car, the area mostly deserted, “I suggest we re-examine all unusual occurrences we’ve witnessed since the change, that in itself being the most peculiar.”

Waylon agreed. If they listed everything- maybe they could find connections and figure out what was going on.

Burns said then: “But for now, Waylon, let’s go home. I’m rather tired…”

They returned to the manor; Burns was clearly ready for bed, and Waylon figured he may as well go to bed too, lay beside Burns. It had been a long time since he’d slept alone.

Waylon was about to take his glasses off, but his attention was engulfed by Burns’ lips on his cheek, then a hand brushing his chest, before Burns’ body retreated and he settled under the duvet near to Waylon. “I love you,” he murmured, “mirrors and voices in your head be damned. Goodnight, Waylon.”

Waylon’s heart fluttered in the dark. “I love you, Monty. Goodnight.” Waylon took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. He was more fatigued than he had thought. 

Burns must have gotten up before Waylon that next day; his side of the bed had been empty. Waylon searched for him around the manor and finally found him downstairs.

Burns sat, still in his night clothes, with one leg over the other, his manner stiff, he held a teacup in one hand, and he stared ahead. Upon closer inspection, his hand holding the cup shook almost violently.   
Burns whispered to himself rapidly, brow contorting, his eyes moving. Waylon couldn’t make anything out except the word ‘no’.

Waylon frowned, regarding him. “Er, Monty, are you-”

Burns looked back at him. His eyes seemed dull, clouded over. “ _What_?” His hand shook so hard Waylon thought he would drop the cup, or that the tea would spill.

“Are you- are you alright?”

“I’d be better if you’d stop asking me inane questions,” Burns snapped, “That’s all you do, it seems.” He stood, set the cup on a table.   
“I don’t-“ Waylon swallowed, taking a few steps backwards. “What are you talking about?”  
“Always asking me how I feel, always prying, you are.” Burns sneered, turning his lip at Waylon.   
_He- he’s not being facetious? Why is he suddenly so angry with me? What did I do that_ … _I haven’t even seen him since last night, and nothing was wrong, at least I don’t think…_

“I-” Waylon started.   
“And another thing,” Burns interrupted, “stop calling me Monty, I am not your _friend_.”  
  


He felt as if he had been punched in the chest. “What- what is wrong with you?” Waylon exclaimed at last, “Why are you suddenly acting so hostile, like we’ve never-”   
“Never what? Slept together? How I _despise_ being that close to you.” Burns flinched, and his expression contorted, as if he were in conflict with himself, like when he was whispering to himself... 

But Waylon clenched his fists. What the hell was he talking about? Where had _this_ Burns come from? “Mon- Sir, I don’t understand-”   
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Burns hissed, “you hardly understand me as it is- I must tell you everything, there is no subtlety! You’re rather thick.”

Waylon narrowed his gaze. “This doesn’t make any sense, you know. You’ve never acted like this before. But if that’s really how you feel…” Though he couldn’t imagine it was.

“I’ll never love you the way you seem to me,” Burns continued, leering, though his movements seemed forced and stiff.

“ _What_ -” The comment made him think of something else. The wording, ‘ _I’ll never love you_ ’… what the voice had told him in the bathroom at Damien’s…

“So everything-” Waylon shook his head, his voice breaking, fluctuating, “all we’ve done together and gone through, all the times you’ve been happy to be with me, that _you_ kissed _me, Monty,_ that _you told me you loved me_ , you were… what, trying to spare my feelings? After all that, you really _despise_ being next to me? What the hell-” That made no sense. “What happened to you?” _Please, Monty, I don’t know what’s going on_.

“How _dare_ you-” Burns’ nostrils flared. “Get… get out of my house. Go.”

“What-” Waylon was too surprised to move.

“I-” Then, in an apparent fit, Burns shut his eyes, one hand against his forehead and the other pressed to his stomach, bending over. Waylon was afraid to approach him, though it looked like he was in pain. He waited, brow furrowing when Burns stumbled to the wall, near to where a mirror hung. Burns jerked his head up and stopped in front of the mirror, his body still, then he convulsed, and shook, wailed from his throat. In a stagnated motion he crashed one hand, and then the other, against the glass of the mirror, letting go a cry of anguish. Glass fell to the ground.

“Monty!” Waylon rushed to his side, forgoing his anxieties and frustrations. “Your _hands_ …”

Burns turned around, looked up at him, red and dishevelled, trembling. Blood welled in the cuts on his hands, bits of glass embedded in the skin.

But his eyes were bright again, and clear, sad. “Waylon,” he whispered, “Waylon, please… whatever I just said to you- that was not _me_ \- I don’t want you to leave-”   
“I need to get the tweezers,” Waylon said, flinching at the glass shards. Burns nodded.

Waylon hurried to find the tweezers, not able to even think over Burns’ behaviour, his spout of strange hostility.  
When he returned with first-aid supplies in addition to the tweezers, Burns was sat on a bench, picking the glass from his hands, flinching as he pulled it out. He looked up when Waylon came over.   
“It is fine, I can remove them myself,” he claimed, yanking another jagged piece from his palm, his brow creasing, “there’s no need for your assistance.” Blood trickled over his wrists, on his fingers.

“Let me help you.” Waylon loosely grasped Burns’ near hand and cleaned off the not-dried blood, repeated for the other, then approached his skin with the tweezers, plucking out individual glass shards, some miniscule. He dropped them all onto the cloth, along with the ones Burns had already picked off. Burns was quiet, let Waylon hold his hands. Then Burns rinsed them, and Waylon applied to them hydrogen peroxide to clot the blood flow.

Afterwards, Burns was unusually meek. “Waylon? I must… what I said, I must have _hurt_ you…” He shuddered, “I was not in control of myself, if that is comprehensible.”  
“What happened to you?” Waylon’s brow was drawn in confusion, “all those things you said to me. I- I thought-”

“That- that display was not me, I-” Burns swallowed. “Something… something in my mind, it compelled me to belittle you… I- I… you’ve no idea what I- I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “That wasn’t _me_.”

“It wasn’t… _you_?”   
“You must believe me, I would not lie to you,” Burns pleaded. “It is- it is as you told me at the social last night, of your own tribulation with the mirror- that it was not you, that the voice in your head was not you. I would not lie to you as I know you would not to me.”  
Waylon was alarmed, but continued. _It wasn’t me_ , he had told Burns at Damien’s. And now the situation was somewhat reversed. “I know you wouldn’t,” he said. “But, besides that… why did you break the mirror?”

Burns pressed his lips together, his brow drawn. “I could not stand that I was, on the outside, behaving in such an egregious manner towards you – there was something in my head, I attempted to fight against it, and I could not… and there are these awful headaches we’ve had, and my stomach too ached. But when I looked into that mirror- something _taunted_ me, and suddenly, I could no longer stand anything, I took control of myself once more, and I swung my fists at the surface, I wanted to destroy it. I wanted to destroy every mirror in my sight. And I… I did not want to say anything I did, dear Waylon- _it wasn’t me_.”   
“Was it- it wasn’t a voice in your head, was it, like I had?”  
“I… I do not believe so, it was more of a feeling, a need for compliance, though I fought against it, I said the things I-” He ran a finger over the cuts on his other hand, and looked up at Waylon. “I _did_ hurt you, I was compelled to feel immense anger and disgust towards you, towards our relations, it took over me.”

“So it’s gotten to you, too,” Waylon said quietly. “Something’s happening to us...”

“Waylon-“ Burns seemed preoccupied, “however it happened, I am sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I know. I know it wasn’t you.” _I’m so sorry, Monty._

“I- I do love you,” Burns said, holding tentatively a faint smile, “I- I truly do, Waylon. Don’t take anything that came from my mouth- none of which I think of you at all- to heart.”

“I know. I love you,” Waylon murmured, “don’t be hard on yourself.” Burns edged closer, regarding Waylon for approval, and Waylon opened his arms. Burns leaned into the embrace, his arms circling Waylon’s middle, his head against Waylon’s chest.   
“I only hope that does not repeat,” he said, his voice muffled, “I would not like to relive what I went through, fighting against the unknown entity in my mind with such futility.”

“Neither would I.” Waylon paused. If it were to happen to him… he would hate to impart such hostility upon Burns, even if they both knew it to be untrue.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	16. Part 15: Introspection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waylon and Monty try to figure out what's been happening to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhhhh I'm sorry this has taken so long, I found this chapter difficult to edit since there's a lot going on.... but here we go

Listing all the odd occurrences since they’d woken in the new time after the change was fairly simple; the problem lay in knowing what was causing these occurrences and what their connections were to one another.

They were sure their headaches were a key factor, but not of their meanings. What was it about the mirrors that caused such reactions, when the action involved was so simple? They were only reflections, looking back at them.

“What about your fever?” Waylon asked. They were trying to list all possible anomalies. It was a couple of days after the dinner, and the day after the incident with Burns’ possession.

“What about it?”   
“It came out of nowhere, and you were really sick. I don’t think it was just from being hungover after the bar.”  
“I suppose…”

“There was a time, when you woke up in the hospital,” Waylon explained, “and it was like you didn’t remember you had changed, like you were seeing it again.”

“A memory lapse? I thought I had dreamt that; it was rather surreal…” Burns titled his head. “Speaking of which, our dreams, do you recall the nightmares we both suffered? They recalled the past, in a way… and at the time they felt real.”

Waylon did remember the dream he’d had involving a child Burns, that had ended with him falling to his death. Burns’, though, had been horrifying, as he’d described it.

“So everything involving our pasts in some way has affected us negatively here,” Waylon said, “… it was like the past was trying to hold on to us.”  
“Are you saying the past itself- our lives before- is a _sentient_ force?”

“Do you think it could be?”

“I have no idea,” Burns admitted, “if it is, it doesn’t care for us as we are now. It wants to harm us. The mirrors, they are the most direct form of viewing ourselves, and perhaps where it’s easiest for this force to cause us pains.”

The mirrors housed reflections looking back… as if Waylon or Burns, standing in front of the mirrors, were looking to the past. As if the past were trying to hurt them, through the mirror.

“And it’s gotten stronger.”

“Yes, and if the voice you heard that night at the dinner was, in fact, a tainted remain of the past, that’s why you recognised it as both your own and not.”

“Why hasn’t that happened to you? You’ve looked in the mirrors, too. But…” There of course had been the possession recently. “Yesterday…”

“I don’t know. We’ve experienced different things, obviously, if yesterday is an indicator... Nor do I know if there is a pattern…”

Waylon thought. He remembered how Burns would say he was weak, insisted it, and wondered if that had been a voice inside Burns’ head.

“Possibly,” Burns said to that idea, “though I thought that was entirely my own. But it’s possible, with what’s happened to us since.”

Burns’ idea about the past wasn’t unfounded; there was a malicious nature to the more peculiar things they’d witnessed. And if that were true, was there another, more benign force that had caused the change in the first place?

To answer the latter, they tried to think about what they had done the day before the change, which seemed like a lifetime ago. It was now the next day after they’d discussed the possibility of a sentient past.

“You were afraid of being weak, and wondered what it would be like if you were younger, and we talked about that a lot that day…”

“The photographs,” Burns said, “the photographs, do you remember? That night, I threw them into the fire…”  
“But the fire destroyed them, how could that have caused the change?”

“I think we ought to go into the library,” Burns decided, “perhaps there’s… something. We haven’t set foot in there since that night, and certainly haven’t gone to examine the room… have you..? I’ve not, though it’s been some time since.”

Waylon doubted they would find anything, but they headed to the library anyway to look at the fireplace. He hadn’t ventured in there much either, had never examined the fireplace, if he had.

Said fireplace was long dead, and they approached it. Burns took a fire iron and poked the charred logs; Waylon knelt down and examined the pile. He found nothing but ashes first, but then spotted what looked like the edge of paper. Carefully, he leaned in further and extracted it, lifting up the grate under which it was partially stuck. He pulled the entire thing out and sat back.

 _How the hell_ \- His hands shook, he stared, holding both pieces in his hands. _This shouldn’t exist anymore_ … 

“Monty.” 

Burns dropped the iron and peered over at what Waylon held. “ _They’re still here_ ,” he uttered, going still.

Burns now resembled his own photographs entirely. The photographs he had thrown into the fire to destroy had survived without a scratch.

“Is this why? Is this the reason I look this way? Because it didn’t burn?”

“I don’t know. I think… it’s part of why…” Still in disbelief, Waylon tried to think.

Burns sat down on the floor and shook his head, and took the photographs himself, examining them. “There is nothing inherently special about these… why were they not destroyed?”

“Maybe there is something about them.”  
“I don’t know. But I feel as if these are the answer, somehow…” Burns stared down. “I feel a… connection, something’s telling me…” He went silent. “I think this photograph was truly haunted, as I said before…”

“Monty?”

“I can’t explain it right now, but something about these catalysed the change, when they were thrown into the fire…”

Waylon was a bit concerned; Burns sounded as if he were listening to someone that wasn’t there, like another voice. “You aren’t… hearing anything weird in your head, are you? Nothing like yesterday?”

Instead of answering, Burns asked, “You do trust me, of course?”

Waylon nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“Then trust I had an intuition, shall we say, that pulled me here. But it didn’t feel malicious, entirely… It wasn’t like yesterday.” He quieted again. “It’s me, Waylon, the spirit of myself from long ago, that was within this photograph, it was haunted indeed. That must be the case, here.” He held up the original. “There was a bit of something in the other one, as well…” He had dropped the other photograph onto the floor.

Despite his insistence that whatever Burns had experienced hadn’t been negative, Waylon felt uneasy, and told Burns so.

“I suppose. I don’t like this one,” Burns said, pointing to the copy. “But otherwise, there’s nothing about which to feel uneasy.” 

Waylon gestured to the photos, frustrated. “Still, _any_ energy emitting from them, even if it’s _yourself_ , seems dangerous. We don’t know how this works.”

“Fine. We can leave if you wish.” Burns placed the photographs on a table, seeming reluctant to touch the copy before sliding it with his foot, depositing it away from the original.

Throughout the day, Waylon began to feel progressively fatigued; his body ached. The odd feeling he had had in the library had morphed into illness.

He stopped in front of the guest room door, unable to go on, he shivered, though he was not cold. All he wanted to do was go into the room and collapse on the bed. Nausea overwhelmed him. He was alone in the hallway. Waylon stumbled to the wall, fearing he would lose his balance. What was wrong with him?

The hall began to dissolve and bend around him, his will to move lost, he was so tired…

“Waylon? Waylon!”

His mouth refused to move, his body couldn’t respond. It felt as if Burns’ voice was at the other end of a wind tunnel. Was he still in the hallway? He didn’t know if he were awake or asleep.

A cool touch to his chest, his neck. A relieved sigh. “You frightened me.”

He wanted to speak. He couldn’t stay unmoving without saying anything while Burns was there, not knowing what was happening.   
At last, he found some effort to open his eyes. “I…”

Burns tilted his head, regarding Waylon. “What happened? Did you faint?”

Waylon stared at his feet, he was sat against the same wall. “I… don’t know… I feel… it hurts.”

“You ought to go to bed,” Burns recommended, “can you walk?”  
“Maybe…” He groaned, his legs and arms must have been cinderblocks.

Burns knelt and held out his hands, Waylon grasped them, worrying that Burns would not be able to lift him, and Waylon didn’t want to burden him.

But Burns, though his muscles strained, did not falter, and he pulled Waylon to his feet. Waylon latched onto him, unsteady.

“Come, then,” Burns said, “it’s convenient you stopped nearby the guest room, hm?”  
“Ah…”

Burns led him to the door, turned the handle, and brought him to the bed, pulled down the covers. Waylon crawled onto the surface, grateful, and Burns draped the blankets over him.

“M-Monty?” He was so out of it, felt so far away.

“I’m here.” Burns’ voice, low and soft. “Are you uncomfortable? Hot? Cold?”

“No…” Waylon blinked. “But… could… you turn on the fan?”

“Mm.” Burns’ footfalls dimmed, at once the fan fell wide sweeps of subtle winds across him.

“I’ll leave you to sleep, if you are settled…” His voice was closer. Waylon wrenched his eyes open, Burns was above him, light from the lamp shading half his face and hair, creating gold, likened him to a fae… or Waylon was just so fatigued that his mind was running unfiltered. “Wait,” he managed.

“Yes?”   
“Would you stay?”

Burns frowned. “But why? You’ll be asleep.”

He hardly felt like explaining it to Burns, whose obliviousness in some manners almost frustrated him. “Remember you… asked me to stay… when it was raining…?”  
“Oh… yes?”

“It’s like that.” 

Burns blinked. “ _Oh_.” He stared. “You’d want me to climb into bed with you, then?”

“You… you don’t have to…”

“What do you want me to do? Stand by and watch you sleep?” Burns shook his head. “I’d rather not do that. I’ll take the first option. Unless you mind…?”

“N-no, not at all…”

Burns slipped off his shoes, left them neatly by the door, and walked around to the other side. He wore a loosely buttoned shirt and black trousers, hair tied back. Waylon sighed as Burns settled, pulled loose his hair, and adjusted himself under the duvet.

“I suppose I’ll take a rest with you,” he murmured, “sleep, now, dear.”

Comforted by Burns’ presence and his words, Waylon closed his eyes once more and let himself drift off.

Coming to, Waylon’s throat was dry. He didn’t have the energy to retrieve water himself. Perhaps Burns would be willing…

Waylon turned his head. Burns’ eyes were closed. Then, as if he could sense Waylon looking at him, he blinked, his eyelids still lowered. He raised an eyebrow, and Waylon ventured to ask, “Er, Monty?”  
“Wha- yes?” Burns yawned. “What is it? Do you need something else?”

“I-“ Waylon coughed, “I guess I could use some water, but you don’t have to-”

“I’ll bring you a glass of water, if you so wish.” Burns patted him and eased off the bed, yawning still. “I didn’t realise how tired I was myself,” he muttered, and then left the room.

It was early evening. Waylon sat upright against the pillows, feeling out of sorts. He didn’t like to sleep during the day, he always felt more tired afterwards. He wondered where Burns had gone.

In the meantime, Waylon picked up a book he’d started reading, finding it a bit dull but it kept his mind occupied-

Burns slipped inside, his head tilted, he brushed his hair out of his face, looked up, expression relaxing, holding a glass of water. Waylon regarded him in turn, smiled as best he could.

Burns handed him the glass and leaned next to the bed, examining him. “How do you feel now?” he asked, grazing Waylon’s forehead with his hand, gentle and familiar.

“I don’t know… I think worse.” Waylon sipped the water, then set it on the table.

Burns sat down on the bed itself, reached, and touched Waylon’s forehead, the side of his face. “Is there… anything I could do for you?”

“The medicine I bought before… I could try that…” He yawned. “It’s in the cabinet in your bathroom. And thanks for the water.”

“Oh…” Burns shrugged, “You were surely parched.” Despite his nonchalant response he seemed pleased.

When he came back, holding the correct medicine container, he set it down next to the water on the side table and said, “Perhaps I was wrong about the photographs.”   
“What?”

“That’s why you fell ill, it was a mistake to handle the photographs earlier. Especially the copy, and you handled it much more than I did.” He opened the medicine for Waylon and took his seat again on the bed, mattress springs creaking.

Waylon extracted a tablet from the container, took it with the water. He sighed. “You think- _that’s_ why? But you said it ‘didn’t feel malicious’.”

“Not the original… There is something I was considering while you were resting… I was as well, but before I fell asleep- I thought of our conversation earlier and the idea of a sentient past. Our reflections in the mirrors are reproductions- like the copy of the photograph, which I believe is tainted and is the cause of our problems.” He rested his hand on Waylon’s, rubbing back and forth.

Waylon frowned. “Why?”

“Because,” Burns said, “our reflections are copies of us, just as the photograph was a copy of its original. Our reflections only exist in the mirror, through which something is infecting us. It’s rejecting us as we are now and we are rejecting it by existing here, but it still holds on.” He sighed.

“I guess that makes sense, with everything else… but what about the original photo, how does that fit in?”

“I believe it was the catalyst for the change.”

“Since neither photo burned… You talked that day about wanting to be younger, what it would be like, and then your wish was granted.”

Burns continued, “ _And one photograph wasn’t the original_. Perhaps if I’d thrown only the original into the fire, we wouldn’t be experiencing side effects. But a copy alongside had potential to be tainted, being a reproduction.”

“But we still don’t know _why_ the photographs were the catalyst. Why didn’t they burn?” 

Burns frowned. “Yes, that still remains. I told you, the spirit of my younger self was within them, and it dispersed to bring the change, leaving behind only a footprint, if you will. That’s what I realised while I was handling them, I had a feeling…”

“So the original brought the change, and the copy did too, but with… side effects?”

“Yes…”

“But why?” He could hardly think as it was. “Why did the copy bring side effects onto us?”

“The original photo alone let _this_ happen,” Burns said, gesturing to himself, “The photographs called to me, as I observed in the library; the change came from the essence of my young self, within the photograph. It was haunted, after all. Burning it released the essence, and then latched onto me. As it’d done that already, the copy, containing some of that essence, but much less, had nothing to latch onto.”

Waylon recalled vaguely the noises he thought he had heard that night after Burns had tossed the photos into the fire, and the warm breeze out of nowhere. It had been the ‘essence’, freed from its photograph, he supposed. 

“And the copy?”

“It was a useless double; when it was burned, its limited nature meant it could only exist as a reflection.”  
“But it wasn’t an actual reflection.”

“No. It was a force derived from the unusable copy. I expect that the negative effects we’ve experienced have come from this copy in the mirror.”

“That solves it for you,” Waylon said, “but what about my… reflection?”

“If I’m correct, then it came from my copy in the mirror. Part of it transformed into your reflection to deceive you as well, my closest confidante and the only other who remembers the past.” 

“Do you think that’s because I was in the library with you that night?”  
“Most likely.”

“So we’re dealing with… evil mirror spirits, not a sentient past exactly, that cause things to happen to us,” Waylon concluded.

“Yes, and they’ve become stronger over time… we must do something about it, before it gets worse.” He thought. “If we were to truly destroy the photographs, perhaps? Rather, only the copy…”

“The spirits have moved beyond the copy, though,” Waylon argued, “so why would destroying it help us?”

“I don’t know. Do you suggest we destroy all reflective surfaces instead?” Burns scoffed.

“ _No_ … and that wouldn’t help either, because it wouldn’t destroy these spirits.”

“But you have forgotten that we were still affected by the copy earlier, despite the spirit having moved to the mirrors. A force still lingers there… perhaps the spirits can infect us more directly than through mirrors.”

If the mirror spirits could traverse beyond reflective surfaces, and infect their minds and bodies, that would explain Burns’ lapse of memory in the hospital, and both of their illnesses, their dreams.

Waylon sighed. “I guess so. Everything else weird that’s happened does fit, with that theory, since they all directly affected us and only us.”

“And we must put an end to it.” The question was how they could do that, due to the seemingly fluid nature of the spirits.

Waylon agreed, but he was growing weary of the discussion, and they couldn’t take much action now, anyway. Burns left him to rest, saying he would return later. 

When he woke, Burns was sat on the bed once more, on the side where he’d slept earlier.  
“How long have you been there?”

Burns brushed himself off and leaned his body towards Waylon. “Not terribly long. I had supper while you were asleep. Do you want to eat, as well?”

Waylon shook his head. “Not really.” He didn’t feel like eating anything, only like lying in bed. 

Later at night, Waylon settled for bed, Burns having decided to sleep beside him again. Waylon was fatigued, despite having spent much of the day sleeping already. He hoped he might feel better the next day, but he thought that was unlikely.

_He could not escape the dreams, dreams that were startlingly lucid. A void of grey, now, he stared. Formless, foggy horizon. Nothing in sight. At least, in his dreams, he was not ill. He had no idea why he could be here, though._

_It was as if he stood under a clouded sky in an empty plain. Looking around, he saw a figure to the left, which looked suspiciously similar to him, but monochrome, slightly transparent._

_“You’re from the mirror,” Waylon realised, “aren’t you?”_

_The figure nodded.  
“Are you the reason why I’m sick? You and Monty’s… reproduction?”  
“You did that to yourself.”_

_“How could I have-”  
“You shouldn’t have disturbed the source. You amplified your own sickness.”  
“The photograph?”_

_“It was not yours to touch! Nor did you listen to us about him. His ‘youth’ is an illusion. He does not care for you.”  
“You’re the one who doesn’t care for me. You’re just the copy. Leave us alone.”_

_“We are not finished with you. You are a lost, naïve man. He does not love you, he is drowning in his vain prize of youth.”_

_“No. Stop…” The spirits were only there to sow conflict and discord and harm them. “Leave us alone.”_

_The mirror-Waylon shook his head and disappeared._

_Now another figure, grey, monochrome, appeared. No- Burns. As if Burns existed in a perpetual silent film.  
“Monty?”_

_Burns shifted towards him, moved quickly, regarded him, leaning in. His eyes, grey instead of blue, narrowed. “Ah, Waylon, you’ve arrived. Welcome.”  
Waylon took a step back. “What- where are we? The other… one, he didn’t say…”_

_“The barren dreamscape.”  
“The… and you, you’re from the mirror too, you’re Monty’s reproduction, from the copy…” Mirror-Burns, as it were._

_“It doesn’t matter.” Mirror-Burns scowled. “Ugh, I do wish you could stay. Monty doesn’t deserve you.”  
Waylon glared. “You’re the one who’s been hurting us, you and- the other me. It’s your fault, all the headaches and…” This… this thing was the reason for their suffering?_

_“You shouldn’t have tampered with the source, your ailment worsened. Otherwise, you should have listened to us, to ME- I created that Waylon, after all, from my own energy-and you should’ve kept away from Monty. He can’t sustain you, he is finite. He’s fallible. I am not. He deserves nothing.”_

_“What- why do you hate him so much?”_

_“He is an ungrateful, arrogant old man parading as his past. And still you’d follow him to the ends of the earth, you are misguided…”_

_“He…” Yes, Burns was arrogant, less so recently… but ungrateful? “You don’t know him. And- so what if he is an old man? I love him.”  
“I do know him, I AM him, I’m the shadow, if you will, of his spirit, the one lodged inside him.”  
“But-” And this was a losing battle… “You don’t know him,” Waylon repeated, “you’re the… shadow from one moment years ago. He’s changed since then, he’s grown. He’s not static, like you.” _

_Mirror-Burns glowered. “If I had my way, you would stay here with me, forever, and he’d be soon gone.”  
Fury mounted in Waylon, indignant. “Why would I ever want to stay with you? You aren’t Monty, you’re a shadow-”_

_“I know what I am, Waylon. But he doesn’t know anything.”_

In darkness, he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Mirror-Burns. He shivered. The shadow wanted him to give in to the belittling and believe things about himself and Burns that weren’t true. Burns’ youth wasn’t an illusion, was it? If he had changed because of the spirit of his younger self within the photograph, then the spirit had become a part of him… Waylon hoped. He felt bad for even questioning that, surely nothing Mirror-Burns had said was true…

He wanted to talk to Burns, but couldn’t now, it was too late, and he didn’t want to wake him for that. Vowing to tell him in the morning, Waylon closed his eyes again and slipped into a dreamless sleep.

Waylon came to around ten thirty the next morning. Burns, already awake, glanced at him.

“Monty…”

“Hello, Waylon.”  
“I had a dream last night…”

“Oh?” Burns leaned closer, pulling blankets with him. “And what happened in your dream?”

“I met…. the mirror spirits. It felt real…”  
Burns frowned, alarmed. “What did they say?”  
“I think you were right about the photos; it said the copy was the ‘source’ and I shouldn’t have touched it. The shadow- er, I call him Mirror-Burns, he… created the other Waylon, apparently, you were right about that… he wants me to listen to them. He wants me to believe you don’t care about me, that you’re horrible, and that I’m naïve.” He continued, “They both insisted your youth is an illusion.”

“An illusion? No, it is not. It may have been the spirit of my younger self who made this possible, but since, that spirit has become a _part of me_ ,” Burns insisted, “a fixture, if you will. These spirits- shadows- are wrong.”   
Waylon nodded. “Have you had any dreams about it?”

“Not yet.”

“Did the er, photos tell you what you just told me? Yesterday?”

“They did not _talk_ to me like in your dream. I knew, however, from the ‘essence’ of my spirit in the original photograph, that it had attached itself to me entirely. I felt to it a connection.”  
“And with the copy? You said you didn’t like it.”

“Yes, that wasn’t as pleasant. I had to set it down immediately. I wanted to reject it, it felt very wrong. A string of doubts and anxieties began to creep into my head, and a strange, unnatural anger came over me. I couldn’t hold onto it. It was only hurting me. Mirror-Burns, eh?” He laughed drily.

“Has Mirror-Burns actually ‘spoken’ to you at all, besides when the voice… took over you, before?”

Burns shrugged. “I’ve had voices, yes, but before I was possessed, and before we discussed the spirits theory, I had thought they were my own. When I heard about your experience at the dinner, I was not sure if I had had quite the same. You’ve had it worse in that regard, I….”  
“Maybe the original spirit is protecting you or something.”

“I wouldn’t be shocked if that were the case. It _is_ interesting that you spoke with the… spirits. But their intrusion into your dream is not good. It indicates their power is growing.”

Waylon nodded in agreement. “What are we going to do? I can’t keep going like this.”

“No.” Burns thought. “Nor can I. We must destroy the copy. That’s their source, as the spirits said in your dream. As long as it’s here untarnished, it sustains them.” He paused. “And I should be unaffected by its destruction, if you’re concerned about that. It’s the original from whence came my spirit.”

“Are you- are you concerned about that?”

“We’ll discuss that later.”  
“Er, then, how do we destroy it? Do you think it could burn now?”

“We should attempt to burn it, if not by fireplace, then by match, in the library again would be best…”

“Now?”

“We shouldn’t wait long.”  
“But you shouldn’t do it alone.”

“So do you want to drag yourself to the library? You’re still unwell.”

“Mostly because of the mirror spirits, which would be destroyed if you’re successful.”

Burns sighed. “Fine. If you can make it. Otherwise you should stay in bed.”

Waylon sat up and stood, a bit shaky on his feet but not falling over. He would rather stay in bed, but he thought he could manage this particular trip downstairs.

Burns didn’t say anything; he walked towards the hallway and then looked over his shoulder at the door to check that Waylon was right behind him. Waylon could walk, though his steps felt heavier than usual. After a minute Burns said, “Perhaps this will be quicker if I assist you.”

Waylon nodded and let Burns’ arm wrap around his torso. “Thank you.” 

Burns’ support comforted him, he felt somewhat lighter. They took the elevator rather than the stairs to the library.

Waylon sat down once they arrived, while Burns turned the fire on and looked for a match. He took the copy by its edge and tossed it into the building flames, then looked down.

“Is anything happening?” Waylon asked.

“Not that I can see. I’ll turn it off in a minute.” He continued to watch the fire, then turned it off and poked around the grate with the iron tongs.   
“What else did I expect…?” he muttered, having yanked out something. Burns turned around, his expression grim, irritated. He held up the photograph, unscathed, to Waylon, then dropped it on the floor, the tongs clanging. “And you don’t feel any different?”

Waylon shook his head. “No.”

Quickly, Burns tried lighting the match and burning the copy that way, but to no avail. He glared at it and tried to rip it apart by hand, which barely made a dent. Finally he threw it down and stomped it with his shoe.

Burns, face still set in a scowl, his features drawn, sat down next to Waylon. “I don’t know what else to do with it. It’s made itself indestructible when I wish to pulverise it… I’m sorry, Waylon.”

“It isn’t your fault. We didn’t know what would happen.”  
“And what else are we to do now to remove it from our lives? How…” Burns glared down at the photograph. “Refuse to do what I want, eh?” He sat back, bringing his hands together. “Perhaps it’s time to repeat the entire motion. It wasn’t enough, only the copy. Nothing will happen until we destroy the true source- the original.”

“But why would you want to do that? It’ll affect you- and more than that, it could hurt you, if you destroy the source of the change. There has to be a different way.”

“No. I know- I am told, I suppose- that there is no other way to destroy the malevolent spirits besides destroying the source, that is, the _original_ , as well as the copy.”

“Who told you, your own spirit? Or the mirror?” Then, though Waylon was sat on the sofa, he felt light-headed, as if he were to faint. _His spirit knows what will happen if you destroy the sources. He knows what Monty must sacrifice if he wants to expel us- both photographs._

“Waylon?” Burns’ voice was distant, dissonant. He opened his eyes as the world refocused. “Did you hear me?”

Waylon turned to Burns. “It came back. The spirit, er… Mirror-Burns. I heard it in my head just now. It said that your spirit knows ‘what will happen if you destroy the sources’ and knows what you have to sacrifice if we want to destroy him.”

“Yes, that is true. But it is gaining too much power, able to infiltrate our minds without use of any mirrors. My own spirit within me may protect me to some degree, as you theorised, but that does not make me immune to the effects. If it- he- can make us ill, I do not want to imagine its full potential to inflict us. It is foolish to let this continue.”

“But what about you? Destroying both photos would destroy the mirror spirits, but the original spirit would be destroyed too, then, even if it is attached to you. If it leaves, then… It’s too risky.” Waylon took Burns’ hand. “And you don’t want to go back to before, you said. The change was good for you.”

“I know what I said. Of course I don’t wish to go back when I have experienced what the change has offered to me, but… I have no desire to see your further suffering, or mine. But…”

“Yes?”

“I…” Burns twisted his hair around his fingers, “if the burning of them both goes through as we think it would, we expel the spirits, and I truly were to return to the state I was in- that is _, older_ …”

Waylon raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“I fear,” and Burns sighed, “that I would be disliked… that, you, Waylon, might turn from me, that you wouldn’t find me so attractive, as you do…” His shoulders slumped.

Waylon shook his head, brought his arm around Burns. “That’s not true.”  
Burns frowned, but leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. “Then what’s true, according to you?”

“I love you,” Waylon said, “All of you. You’re so beautiful, whether you look this way or the way you used to.” He pulled Burns closer to him, against his side.

“And I love you, dear Waylon,” Burns murmured, “still, I’m afraid…” He quieted, his brow creased.  
“I am too.”

The life they had made in this world would be gone, and he felt helpless. He couldn’t imagine how Burns felt about the prospect.

They sat in the quiet of the library, anger and frustration shadowed by sobering resignation.


	17. Conclusion: Part 16: I. Paralysation and II. Learning to live (again) or The Phoenix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final showdown with Mirror-Burns approaches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE LAST CHAPTER IS HERE!!! I can't believe it, I can't believe I really finished this thing, it's been a long ride, but IT IS FINISHED!! It's about 33k more words than the first draft back in July, which was about 37k in total I believe.  
> Now, there is one more chapter coming, which will be a compilation of some scenes from Burn's perspective, and I am also working on a sequel!

  1. **Paralysation**



Though they didn’t say explicitly, both Waylon and Burns were avoiding the inevitable burning, neither ready to initiate it. But as time went on, the attacks from Mirror-Burns grew, as if pushing them towards the edge.

Burns slept in bed with Waylon again that night, which Waylon was grateful for, though he still was unwell. Waylon woke sometime early in the morning to a disturbance next to him; blearily he slid his glasses on, and examined the situation.

Burns groaned, thrashing about every few minutes, his face drawn in distress. “Monty? Monty!” Waylon rubbed Burns’ shoulder, gently, in alarm.

Burns’ eyes were wet; laying on his back now, awake, he glanced at Waylon, and lunged at him in an embrace. Waylon gasped, returning the gesture, wondering what had constituted the reaction. Burns was silent, his eyes closed. He only touched his head to Waylon’s chest, his body shaking.

“What happened?” Waylon asked quietly, stroking his hair.

Burns coughed. “The dream I had, the one with Eloise… do you recall?”

“The… the one you told me about a while ago, over dinner?” Waylon frowned. “Where it was you if you’d stayed with her…?”

“Precisely.” Hollow, Burns continued, “I’ve now had a similar dream, but… this was worse. In the first, I was an observer to myself, to him, I was on the outside. I was still me.” He shivered. “In the second, this dream, I… I _was_ him.” He cleared his throat. “It was terribly lucid, too.”

“Oh, Monty…” Despite his aching joints, Waylon held Burns tighter. “You’re alright now.”

“I… I was trapped,” Burns went on, “I thought it was real. I despise who I would’ve become with her. I wasn’t myself anymore. I couldn’t look at myself, because I… I didn’t feel confident or… pleased with my appearance, after she… she made me get my hair cut. I… I wished for you to come, to help me, rescue me, but I was alone… And then, I spent much time in this house, trying to distract myself with maudlin entertainment, when she wasn’t there. I stopped eating, and she took to the task of monitoring my meals. I… I even had sold the plant-”

“ _What?_ ”

“Yes,” Burns whispered, “my plant, too. I gave up myself to her will, and lived unhappily.” He lifted his head to Waylon. “Thank you, for making sure I didn’t tread that path. I… I hated my life there, in the dream. _And it could have been my real life_ …”  
“I didn’t want to lose you to her.” Waylon remembered well what had happened between them, how much he’d despised her, how he tried to convince Burns… “I knew she wasn’t good for you. For anyone.”  
“No,” Burns agreed. “She wasn’t.” He yawned, nestled himself under Waylon’s head again. “Hold me until the morning,” he murmured, drowsy, “I like being here.”  
“I like you being here, too,” Waylon said, too quiet for Burns to hear. He took off his glasses, closed his eyes, hoping for a dreamless sleep.

Two days after the failed attempt to burn the photograph’s reproduction in the library, Waylon felt better, enough so that he joined Burns for meals and other activities. He was suspicious, however, of his fast recovery, and wondered what else was in store for him.

At lunch outside on a balcony, they were discussing the power plant; rather Burns was talking about it and Waylon listened, offering small inputs. Burns’ words were becoming more and more lost on him, though he strained to focus. He couldn’t think, something was preventing him from doing so. In its place he had vague semblances of thoughts, unvoiced. They they persisted louder and louder until his head pounded in agony. He didn’t want to say anything-

Burns had stopped talking and was watching him, frowning. “Waylon? Is there-”

“How… how could I ever love you?”   
Burns had taken a sip of water. The glass he held almost slipped from his grasp. “ _Excuse_ me?” He stared at Waylon, his eyes wide in incredulity. “Are you deluded? What makes you say that?”

“I’ve been _deluded_ by _you_.”

The glass thudded slightly as it touched the table. “Waylon, I… don’t think you’re in complete control of what you’re saying-”

“Is that all?” Waylon didn’t know what the hell he was doing. Why was he being so antagonistic towards Burns? There was a static in his head, dulling his thoughts. “You’re a selfish and greedy man. You only care for yourself. How could I love you, let alone like you? How could _anyone_ stand you?” 

Burns furrowed his brow, his eyes narrowing. Perhaps he even looked hurt. He brought his hands around himself and straightened in his chair. “Do you truly believe I don’t care for you, Waylon, at this point in our lives? Or is it something in your head causing you to say such? Is it- you must be experiencing what I was, before…” His expression shifted to concern. “I know you don’t mean what you say, it’s the shadow’s doing.”

“I…” He put his hand on his head, trying to fight himself. _Tell him the truth. He doesn’t care. He never loved you, tell him, he can’t change._

“You’ve never loved me, you can’t change. You don’t care. You’ll never be anything besides the man you were.”  
“What are you talking- leave him alone!”  
“Who are you talking to? It’s only me.”  
“No, it’s not, it’s- the shadow- leave Waylon alone!”

“ _I am_ Waylon,” he hissed.

Burns’ chair scraped back, he moved away from Waylon, towards the doors inside, watching him with an owlish, scared expression, his hand shaking as he turned the handle. “Where are you going?”

Burns gulped. “I… you’re scaring me,” he murmured, hastily going through the door. Waylon growled, walking inside himself, advancing on his smaller frame; Burns gasped.

_Make him know the pain you felt for so many years. Let him know his place. He is nothing without you._

Waylon glowered. “You could never understand the pain I was in for so long, knowing you’d never reciprocate my feelings,” he said. Burns backed away from him, his eyes large and fearful and- there was something else, but Waylon didn’t care. “You’re nothing without me. You’d still be a weak old man if it weren’t for me. It’s been long enough that you’ve told me what to do.”

Burns trembled slightly, every motion pointing towards his abject terror.

“Waylon- this isn’t you, it’s the mirror, the copy…” he murmured, “but this seems much worse than mine…”  
“Quiet.”

Burns frowned, his brow creased, eyes red, but he didn’t speak any more. Waylon took his arm. Burns opened his mouth as if to protest, but shut it again, lowered his head, his hair falling forward. Waylon narrowed his eyes. A pair of scissors in a nearby drawer, he could almost see it… 

_Take it away.  
What?_

_His pride, undeserved, his hair, take it away. Now, Waylon. Get the scissors. Make his little nightmare a reality._

Waylon shoved open the drawer, snatched the scissors, metal glittering. He glanced at Burns, who seemed as if he might cry. “No, no, I can’t… Waylon, _no_ …”

“You’re still so weak,” Waylon muttered. Burns looked at him, helpless, and Waylon backed him flush against the wall.

Burns, shaking, begged, “Waylon _, please_ \- you can’t do this…”

 _I would’ve convinced him to stay with Eloise had I the power to do so then_ , the voice of Mirror Burns said, chuckled _. If I had, I would’ve made you mine then and there, my dear, sweet Waylon…_

“I told you to be quiet.” Waylon yanked forward a strand of Burns’ hair, as Burns cried out, and Waylon raised the scissors and snipped it off, holding it in his fist, while Burns gazed on in horror, and-

Somehow Burns had slipped out of his grip, was running in the opposite direction down the hall, gaining distance quickly. He looked over his shoulder once, his glance vulnerable and fearful. Waylon growled, about to run after him, but he looked down at the limp hair in his hand and shuddered, something shattering within him.

_What have I done?  
But then, Waylon, don’t falter now. Find him and give him what he deserves. _

_But… why?_

_You know why._

And Waylon did- Burns was ungrateful, careless, selfish, undeserving of Waylon’s love and of the gift of youth. He would always underneath be a frail old man. Shoving the scissors into his pocket, Waylon followed the path Burns had taken, scowling when he realised he had lost track of where he could have gone, the hall turning after a point.

He came out to a foyer, a staircase, distantly and from above a creak, so slight he would’ve missed it otherwise. Burns was upstairs.

Waylon leaped onto the steps, climbing them in succession, quietly, straining his ears for movement. Hurried, fast breathing sounded from his left at the landing. Waylon growled.

_There you are…_

Burns tripped onto the floor, face forward, spun around, stared up at Waylon advancing, and scrambled to get onto his feet again. He sped through the rest of the hall and headed left; Waylon followed. Burns dove into a room, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it. Waylon stopped in front of it. “Open the door, you can’t keep running,” he said, “you don’t have a choice, _Monty_.”

Nothing. Waylon would wait him out. And now returned the little voice, the one that asked why. Why he was trying to hurt Burns, whom he loved and who loved him?

 _He’s incapable,_ said Mirror-Burns, _he could never love you, he doesn’t know how.  
_ But- he did…

Waylon’s body turned, froze at the windowpane. His reflection. He gasped, breathing ragged. His eyes were sunken, dead, his hair dishevelled, though distorted by the less reflective qualities of the sheer glass… and, for a second, his reflection changed, and it was Mirror-Burns, leering at him, grinning, so close…

“Stop… make it stop, _get out_ ,” he begged, “leave me alone…” Waylon blinked, a fissure cracking in his mind, lighting a fire; emotion flooded like a burst dam. He choked on a sob, his anger giving way to despair and shame. Nausea overwhelmed him.

 _Monty…_  
How could he have let Mirror-Burns overtake him so? “M-Monty…”

“I won’t open the door. I won’t let you touch me or my hair. You aren’t Waylon.”

“ _No!_ ” Waylon moved closer to the door. “Monty, please, it’s _me_ , I… I understand if you want me to leave, and never come back…” he sobbed, “I’ve been horrible to you.” He tore the scissors from his pocket and threw them into the nearby dumbwaiter on the wall, disgusted he had carried them, and had been ready to hurt Burns again.

The door opened just enough for Burns to peek his head out, and Waylon flinched at the obvious place where he’d cut off a piece of Burns’ hair.

“You’re- you’re… Waylon, it’s really you…?” Burns peered at him, cautious, his eyes tinged red. 

Waylon nodded, feeling weighed down, vile, abhorrent, on the floor. “Yes, I… I can’t…”

The door opened, Waylon lifted his head; Burns met his eyes. And that was what Waylon had seen before in Burns’ face- sadness, and concern, his eyes watery grey-blue, as if overcast and touched with condensation, close to rain. His cheeks were stained, shiny. Burns crawled over to him, slipped under his arms, and wrapped his own arms around Waylon’s sides.

“Wh- what are you doing?” Waylon’s voice trembled. “I’ve been awful to you… I don’t deserve this.”

“No, my dear, stop,” Burns said softly, “I know it wasn’t you.”

Waylon looked up, his sight blurred and wet. “But- I still hurt you. I love you so much, and I…” He sniffed and wiped his eyes. Burns extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and reached out to his face, dabbing the cloth at Waylon’s face gently, until it was dried of tears. “And… that’s… that’s what she did to you, in your dream, when she made you get your hair cut, and I… I made it real. I made it real. _I made your nightmare real_.” Just as Mirror-Burns had wanted. He dropped his head again, ashamed. He didn’t deserve anything. “I’m supposed to be here for you, and…”  
“Waylon, look at me,” Burns said. He obliged. “I… I was afraid, at the time, but you aren’t Eloise. And I know it wasn’t you, who was in control-”  
“But I should have been… I should have been able to take control of myself.”

“Don’t blame yourself, it’s untrue and nonsensical.” Burns rubbed Waylon’s back. “And I wished the same thing, when the shadow had possessed me. I do know how you feel.”

“I…”

“It’s over now, and I forgive you. You weren’t at fault.” Burns put his handkerchief away, leaned his head into Waylon’s neck, planted a kiss. “I love you,” he whispered, “you’re alright.”

They stood up. “Should we finish eating?” Burns asked, “unless you aren’t hungry…?”

Waylon wanted to say he wasn’t, but his stomach growled, into his throat. “We can finish it…”

Walking downstairs, Waylon was conscious of each step, nausea overtaking his hunger. He treaded slowly. A cold seeped through him, travelling into his head. Burns’ voice felt so far away. A loud buzzing. He was empty. The floor drew closer, closer still, until he was suspended above it, hands around him as darkness fell. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. As if waking from nothing, he was sat on the rug. Burns knelt beside him.

“What-” Waylon shook his head, disoriented.

“You had a fainting spell,” Burns said, “but you didn’t hit the floor.”

“You caught me.”

Burns gave the smallest inclination of his head. “But now you ought to rest. I do fear you may become ill again. Do you want to eat something?”

“Maybe later…”

“Mm. There’s a closer guest room than the one you were in… let’s go there.” Burns, taking his arms, helped Waylon to the closer guest room and had one of his estate workers on duty bring his belongings in there instead. 

Waylon felt as if he had never left the bed as he sank into the mattress. His ailment could be solved, supposedly, once and if they followed through with the burning. He was silent on the matter, though, and didn’t want to speak or move anyway.

“Would you like me to… take a rest with you again?” Burns asked then, “Or would you rather be left alone?”  
Waylon nodded, or tried to. “I like having you here,” he murmured, “always.” He was touched that Burns had asked.

Burns crawled into bed, shifting the blankets around himself, turned on his side facing Waylon. He yawned, prompting Waylon to do the same. 

_He stumbled awake surrounded by glittering lights, distancing from the night sky above, grounding in the day. A breeze lifted his clothes and smelled of long summers. Chatter ahead of him rang with enunciations as soon as it faded to muffled static in his ears. He was sat on a cast iron bench welded intricately resting on grass. He must have been at some kind of party or festivity…_

_A glass between his fingers held dark, tilted liquid coloured yellow from the encircling lights. Waylon sniffed it. Wine.  
He stood up and placed the glass on a nearby wicker table and treaded into the throng of people, curious. None of their faces were more than attempts of clay and disappeared the longer he watched. Waylon shivered, hugging the silk jacket he wore, in need of warmth despite the summer air. _

_Razored diamonds dripped from chandeliers under a veranda. Waitstaff circulated with more glasses of alcohol and, oddly, smoked salmon on toast._

_Mahogany doors opened into a grand hall, and the world seemed to sharpen, and his heart slammed against his ribcage. He knew where he was. Until now everything had been moving through a cloud. Burns’ house. As if the mahogany doors had been a portal. Why were all these people here, he supposed Burns was hosting a party, but for what? And where was Burns?_

_Waylon moved through the crowd, attentive for signs of him, his brow twisted, anxious._

_By the balustrade, a man stood alone, dressed in muted greys, his head bent. He had light brown hair, short and unassuming. No…_

_But, as he drew closer, there was no mistaking the sharp profile._

_Waylon drew a breath. “Monty?”_

_Burns lifted his large eyes to Waylon, his hand falling in front of him. A ring glinted on his finger, sending Waylon into a cold sweat. “Waylon?” he said, his tone soft, surprised, “I haven’t seen you in ages.”_

_He hasn’t? “What… what happened to you? Are you… married to…” Waylon grimaced, “Eloise?”  
Burns lowered his head. “Of course I am. Who else would it be? But what are you doing here, Eloise didn’t invite you, did she?”_

_“N-no, I…” Eloise had hated him, why would she invite him to anything involving Burns?  
“In any case you should leave, before she sees you…”_

_“Monty, it’s your house…”_

_Burns shook his head. “It is hers as well, now. But I… I’ve given up everything for her, and I love her, I do, and I know she does me, but…” He touched his hair, hand flitting down his bare neck self-consciously. “Sometimes I don’t feel as if I am myself anymore,” he confessed._

_Well, you seem miserable, Waylon thought. He wanted to embrace Burns, comfort him, but couldn’t. There was some barrier between them now, he didn’t know Burns anymore._

_“Seeing you reminds me of the plant,” Burns continued, “I think I miss it more than I had thought before.”  
“You… you sold it…” He remembered that, vaguely, from a memory, perhaps a dream, not his own…_

_Burns frowned. “Yes, I did. After we were married.”_

_Waylon chewed on his lip. In this reality, if Burns had sold the plant for good, he would be out of work himself, and if Eloise didn’t let him near Burns… what was he doing here? Working for some soulless corporate shill? “You loved the plant, why did you sell it?”_

_“Because Eloise convinced me to.” Burns tugged at his ring. “I decided it was a burden, anyway. But I’ve questioned that decision. And a few others.”_

_“I can’t believe you let your hair be cut,” Waylon murmured, “you were adamant about not doing that before. You loved it…”_

_Burns nodded, dragging the motion. “I try not to think about it anymore. It made her happy.”_

_“But what about you?” Waylon choked, “ your happiness matters, too.”_

_Burns’ lip trembled, and again Waylon wanted to comfort him, he didn’t want to see him cry._

_“Monty!”_

_No, no, not her, not now…  
Eloise, clad in an evening gown, slid next to Burns, her hands laid on his shoulders. Burns gave a minute shiver, his body slackening. Eloise’s expression turned to distaste as she glanced at Waylon. “Smithers… what are you doing here?”  
Waylon glared. “You…” he muttered, “you did this to him. He’s a person too. He’s not your puppet to parade around.”  
“I don’t think I invited you,” Eloise said coolly, “please leave our house.”  
Burns only gazed at him, exhaustion and misery dead-set in his face. _

_“I’ll be back in a moment,” Eloise told Burns, touching his cheek, glared back at Waylon, and walked off._

_Burns sighed. “I’m sorry, Waylon. You have to go. I…” He clenched a fist, “I miss you.” Deep emotion in his voice caught in his throat, and Burns swallowed. “But you have to leave.”_

_“Monty…”_

_“ Please. Before she comes back.” Burns’ eyes held no life. Brow deeply creased, Waylon backed away from him, against his every instinct, out of sight, out the front doors, into the cold and starless night._

Waylon met late afternoon, the fan running, lights turned off, the room not yet immersed in darkness. He blinked, sat up mechanically, and felt around for his glasses.

It had been a dream. And Burns…

Burns, asleep next to him, hair around his face, snoring quietly. Waylon smiled, a lump in his throat, and he touched Burns’ hand resting on his pillow with his own. Immediately, Burns started, his eyes opening and shifting. “Waylon? What are you doing?” he murmured, “How d’you feel?”  
“I still don’t… don’t feel very well, still tired,” Waylon said, “but…” He sniffed, “remember the dream you had, the one, recently…”  
“The… oh, my nightmare with Eloise?” Burns scratched his head. “Don’t tell me you just had one too.”

“I… I did, I had one where… I was at your house, here… there was a party, and Eloise had organised it, and I saw you…” He sniffed again. “Monty, I… I love you, I know I tell you that a lot, but…”  
Burns nodded, squeezed Waylon’s hand, slid over to him, pressed his body beside Waylon. Waylon slid his arm over Burns, sighing, his body aching. Burns spoke, “I love you. What… happened, in your dream? At this party, when you saw me, or, rather, Eloise’s version of me…? The dreadful version, _ugh_ …”

“It was…” Waylon shut his eyes, trying to recall every detail. “You were miserable. I… I felt so awful, because I couldn’t help you, there was this… wall between us. And then _she_ was there…” He flinched. “I’m… I can’t tell you how much you mean to me, and to see you that way, even in a dream…” He opened his eyes, gazed at Burns. “It broke me.”

Burns put his face to Waylon’s collar. “It would’ve broken me, too, if I lived that reality. I wasn’t myself at all, only in name. And, I… even in my dream, I never really loved her, I loved _you_.” He wrapped his arms over Waylon’s shoulder blades, skimming his neck, resting.

“I wonder if the shadow- er, Mirror-Burns was behind these dreams… I mean, that makes sense, they were really lucid and consistent…” Waylon said, thinking aloud, “but I don’t know what the point is except to make us feel worse…?”

“Does he need more motive than that?”  
“I guess he wouldn’t.”

“He’s trying to push us as far as he can until we burn the photographs,” Burns said, “trying to expedite the process.”

“With everything else, yes.” The strange illness and fatigue, possession, the dreams… it all fit.

“Oh…” Burns said, “and are you wanting any food? I might have some, myself. It’s been a couple of hours, and we never did finish that lunch…”

“Maybe…”  
“I’ll have someone bring us a meal, something light for you, hm…” He put his palm on Waylon’s forehead. “I wish you weren’t so ill.”

“So do I,” Waylon mumbled, tired from talking.

Burns called his on-duty chef and requested a couple of dishes to be brought in for them; Waylon was half asleep, and did fall asleep for a few more minutes. He woke to scents of food in a melange about him, and clinking of plates, utensils. Waylon groaned, sat up; he’d fallen asleep with his glasses on. Burns poked his fork and knife at a quiche on a tray over his lap, steam rising from it as he took piece by piece. He paused and turned his head, his hair tied at his neck. “I ordered you chicken broth and crackers, if that’s satisfactory. It’s on the table next to you.”

“That… that’s fine. Thanks.”

“Mm.”

Waylon drank small sips of the hot broth, nibbled on a cracker, the dream before his eyes still. Every time he looked at Burns, he saw how unhappy he could have been if he’d stayed with Eloise, and couldn’t be more relieved that, instead, Burns was here, with him.

As was seeming to become a habit despite his less than well state, Burns slept in bed with him again that night. Yawning, Burns lay close to him, pulled his pillow along, shifting until he was satisfied. “Goodnight.”  
“Goodnight, Monty…”

_He was back again, at the same party. But… he felt something else…_

_Déjà vu, as he watched Burns again, miserable, by the balustrade, pacing, feeling his hair._

_“Monty?”_

_Burns stared, his hands coming to his sides. “Waylon? Are… is it you?”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“I know I’m having a dream again… it’s very strange; are you, as well?”_

_“Wait, how are we- we’re having the same dream?”_

_Burns’ face lit up. “So it is you. I…I don’t know how long we’ll be here until we wake, but I don’t like this-”  
“Monty, there you are.” _

_Burns stiffened. But his countenance spelled a new resolve. He pursed his lips and waited until Eloise was close. “Leave us alone,” he said to her, “I’m speaking to Waylon.”  
Eloise frowned. “He shouldn’t be here,” she said, gesturing to Waylon. _

_Burns shut his eyes. “It’s my house, I… I…” He faltered, and gazed at Waylon pleadingly. Help me. _

_Waylon reached out for Burns’ hand, but something blocked him. Burns blinked, whispered his name, his hand flat against the invisible wall, on the other side._

_But if this were a dream, and of that he was so aware, and Burns, too, he could take more control._

_“ No,” he said, “leave Monty alone, Eloise, he’s suffering.”_

_“You’re delusional,” she said, scoffing, “get out.”_

_“No, Waylon!” Burns shouted, pushing Eloise off of him, “don’t leave, you make me happier than she ever could. And if this is a dream- it’s…” He slammed his hand on the wall, a sound like glass shattering. Burns stretched out his hand, brushing Waylon’s fingertips with need, and Waylon took it, pulled Burns to him._

_“I’ve missed you, my dear,” Burns said, leaning his head up, “when I’m here, dreaming, it feels like I stay for days, weeks, before I wake.”_

_Eloise marched over to them. “He’s my husband,” she snarled, “get out.”_

_She pulled on Burns’ other arm, her hold surprisingly steady and rival to Waylon’s._

_“You’re hurting him, let go!”_

_Burns looked between them, frightened._

_“ You let go,” Eloise countered. _

_“Waylon- make her stop…”_

_In his desperation, Waylon let go of Burns’ hand, intending to take hold of it right after, but Eloise took the opportunity and dragged him to her, and Burns’ energy dropped, his posture sagging.  
But Waylon wasn’t ready to give up, even in the dream. “Let go of him. You make him miserable.”_

_“You don’t know what you’re saying. Right, Monty?”_

_“No,” Burns growled, “unhand me, now. And…” He jerked up his left hand, forced the ring off his finger, stomped on it with his foot, leaving remnants of dust on the floor. “I despise you.” He turned his body, peeled himself away from Eloise. “This isn’t who I want to be. You do make me miserable. Here as you did in our real lives.” He walked some steps forward, taking Waylon’s hand. “Let’s go.”  
Waylon steadied his grip. Burns began to run, navigating his way through the faceless crowd, Waylon’s feet pounding behind him, keeping his pace, keeping his hand intertwined. They didn’t stop at the doors, Burns kicking one open with his foot, cracking it, and waves of yellow sunlight poured over the open foyer. They raced down the stairs, to the ground, somehow finding Burns’ Cadillac, turning on the engine without a key. _

_Waylon hit the gas, hard, and accelerated through the gates, his body flowing with adrenaline. The car bounced onto the asphalt road, lined with trees, drenched in the glitter of morning.  
“Waylon! Look!” Burns laughed. _

_Waylon slowed down the vehicle and swerved onto the shoulder, pulling into park, finally able to gaze at Burns. Golden in the sun, his hair spilled over his shoulders. Burns held it in delight, his eyes flitting up, smiling at Waylon._

_“Oh… it grew back.” Waylon grinned._

_“I… I know this is a dream, but, it feels real, right now,” Burns said, twirling hair around his fingers, “I’m myself.”_

_Waylon held his hands out. Burns lay his on top, and brought his lips to Waylon’s-_

Burns’ face met his atop the pillows, at least that’s what he thought it was. Had they woken at the same time?

“Oh, you can’t see anything, can you…?” Burns chuckled, “I’ll get your glasses.”

Something blurry stretched over him, Burns’ arm, he guessed, and drew back, then clarity, as his glasses slid over his ears. Burns’ blue eyes alive, he stared at Waylon, happy.

Waylon moved his hand into Burns’ hair, soft like silk or cashmere. “I can’t believe we had the same dream.”

“Nor I.” Burns’ hand skimmed Waylon’s side, landing on his back, rubbing against it. “I don’t remember all the details, but I know what happened.” His head turned up, scooting to meet Waylon’s face, closer, until they came together, Burns’ lips between his.

As the morning settled, Waylon’s mind wandered. He worried that, if Mirror-Burns had been behind their joint dream, as he’d probably been behind the two previous they’d had, as well as his mysterious illness, it had not gone as planned. He would, Waylon suspected, invoke upon them worse pain. And they didn’t need to suffer any more than they had already. He continued to feel fatigued and spent most of the day laying about, his respite in the form of Burns spending time with him.

Waylon was surprised that he felt a little better the next morning, his energy having returned more than halfway. He yawned, tilting towards Burns, still asleep.

Apparently, in his sleep, Burns had kicked off the covers, his clothes sticking to his body, his cheeks red. He snored lightly, light from beyond the curtain folding on his face.

Out of caution, Waylon touched his forehead, anxious when it was very warm. Did Burns have another fever?

Burns woke about ten minutes later, stretching, and groaned. “Waylon?” His voice was hoarse. “I don’t feel well…”

Waylon nodded. “It looks like you have another fever.” 

“Damned shadow,” Burns muttered, coughing, “Yes, I think I do.”

Now that Waylon felt relatively better, it was his turn to look after Burns, again. He turned up the fan, brought Burns some water and medicine, ordered him an orange and plain oatmeal at his request. 

“You know,” Burns said, finishing his breakfast, “I think I’d like to take a bath. Would you come with me to my bedroom?”

Waylon started. “Y-yes.”

Burns held out his hands, Waylon helping him up, Burns keeping their opposite hands tied together on the way.

“Do you want me to turn the water on for you?” Waylon asked, Burns closing his bedroom door behind them. He figured Burns would want to be alone.

“No.” Burns sat on an armchair, turning to Waylon. “I want you to bathe me.” Waylon blinked as he laughed, and added, “Like old times, eh?”

“I…”

“Prepare it first and make sure it’s warm enough. I’ll be here.” Without further instruction, Burns smiled and picked up a magazine on the table, crossing his legs. Waylon took the hint and entered the bathroom, sock-clad feet padding over the tiled floor.  
It almost seemed like nothing had changed, as he switched on the tap, getting out towels, sponge, soap, and Burns’ now-preferred hair products. Waylon checked the temperature of the water every so often as it rose. He opened the drapes to let in large rectangles of natural light from the windows.

Satisfied with the level of warmth, Waylon returned to the bedroom. Burns had changed into his robe, his night clothes laying on the bed, along with a few folded articles of post-bath clothes.

“Monty?”

“Ah, it’s ready?” he asked.  
“Yes.”

“Excellent.” Burns followed him back into the bathroom, nodding as he gazed around. He shed his robe, his bare body, all its angles, painted in the sunlight. Waylon sighed in admiration. Burns laughed again, then eased himself into the tub, closing his eyes. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“Of course.” Waylon hung his robe and knelt beside the bath, aching faintly from his lingering ailment.

The only issue now was Burns’ rather stiff position. Waylon frowned. “Are you alright?”

“Mm?”

“You seem stiff, that’s all.”

“I… I suppose we just haven’t done this for ages,” Burns said, turning his profile, “even though I am used to intimacy with you, I…” He shrugged. “The fever doesn’t help, either. But I want to be here, with you.”

“So do I.” Maybe Burns needed to hear it explicitly. Waylon thought. “And it’s okay, you can relax,” he murmured, “I’m not going to hurt you.” He rolled up his sleeves, unbuttoned part of his shirt.

“I know.” Burns stretched, the muscles on his torso and arms, his shoulder blades, shifting. He leaned his head back and sighed, finally letting himself relax, his lower body obscured by soap clustered in the bathwater. “I trust you.”

Waylon dipped the sponge in the water, held Burns’ arm aloft, scrubbed his skin, from his shoulder to his fingers. Burns closed his eyes, a soft smile playing on his face. Waylon took this as a sign of encouragement and proceeded to his back; Burns moved his hair over to give access to his neck. Waylon touched his arm, weaved over his body with the sponge, attentive to every concavity and convexity. After Burns’ other arm, Waylon reached and lifted his legs, one at a time, repeating his motions, as Burns rested against the porcelain bathtub.

“Is there anything you want to talk about?”

Burns shrugged. “Nothing particular. Too tired, I’m afraid. Hm… you always do a fine job. Would you care to join me here? It might be easier, to finish what you’re doing, if you’re closer to me. I’m not contagious.”

He was technically correct. “Are you sure?”

“I insist. Remove your clothes.”

At his behest, Waylon shed his shirt, trousers, and pants, grabbed the sponge again, and slid into the water facing Burns. He shivered at the initial plunge but warmed slowly, the bath seeping into his skin. Burns, now so close, his body dripping and encased in water, was gorgeous. Waylon watched his slim, straight torso, his spindly limbs, bend and move with grace. Burns nodded, pleased with the shorter distance between them, and leaned himself towards Waylon. “Now, you may continue.”

Waylon sidled even closer to him, put one hand over the middle of Burns’ back for support, feeling his spine, and took the sponge over Burns’ front and sides, his collar, chest, abdomen. He paused every so often, checking to see that Burns was enjoying it as much as he was, a ripple of pleasant calm going through him when Burns lifted his eyes beneath half-lowered lids, smiled. 

When Waylon had finished, Burns donned a pensive expression before saying, “Oh… now you can wash my hair, I suppose.” His hair, already wet and darkened by the water, the ends of it floating tepidly, presented itself to Waylon, who squeezed product from the bottle and massaged it through Burns’ long hair, working slowly, supporting his head. “How does it feel?” he asked.

“Fine, fine…mm.”

After rinsing, Waylon repeated with the conditioner, eliciting from Burns a satisfied exhale as he went.

“Ah, Waylon, your hands are excellent,” he said, “go over my shoulders again, would you?”

“Here in the bath?”

“Yes, and then we can dry off, watch a film, or something… the new Greta Gerwig picture, there’s not much I can do, being ill…” He frowned and shook his head. “But- not new, of course.”

Waylon chuckled, placed his hands on Burns’ shoulders from the back, and caressed the skin, circling between the indents of his bones and rubbing into the knotted muscles.

Burns gasped. “Oh, that does feel wonderful…”

Waylon grinned. The heat of the water soothed his own pains some, and he relaxed himself, continuing to massage Burns.

“Alright,” Burns announced sometime later, “I think I’m ready to get out. What do you think?”

Waylon’s fingers were pruning uncomfortably. “Mm-hm.” Kissing Burns’ neck, he climbed out first, wrapping a towel around himself, then helped Burns out, giving him a towel, and another for his hair.

“I called for some of your clothes to be sent here,” Burns told him, “it should be atop my bed, next to my clothes. Could you get those?”  
Waylon nodded, walked out to pick them up, and handed Burns his pile. They both dressed, Burns letting his hair, now damp, fall down his shoulders. He took his hairbrush from the counter and pressed it into Waylon’s hand. Waylon obliged, combing the wavy mass, working through a tangle with gentle pressure.

“Could you braid it?”

The request was quiet, but uttered insistently. Burns looked back at him, gaging his reaction, his eyes scrunched. Waylon was about to agree with earnest, but Burns continued, “If we have to burn those photographs, and I… I lose this form, as I expect to, I want to enjoy it while I can, despite the fever. So, please…”  
Waylon smiled. “I’d love to.” Burns sighed, looked at him again, smiling too. Waylon set to work, using the brush to aide him, separating strands of his hair into three parts, folding them over and over. Burns took an elastic band from his wrist; Waylon used it to secure the braid, and stepped back. Burns, avoiding the mirror, asked, “How does it look?”

“Beautiful.”

Burns rolled his eyes, but then stepped close, positioning himself flush against Waylon, hands clasped on Waylon’s back. Waylon’s chest warmed, or perhaps that was Burns’ head against his heart.

But he hugged Burns to him, fearing, now, the burning of the photographs again, about which they had little choice, if they wanted to stop Mirror-Burns. All Waylon wanted was for Burns to be happy, and that meant staying in his youth, but that wouldn’t be possible. They had to destroy the vestiges of the shadow- and the spirit, benevolent as it seemed.

To distract themselves, they sat down together to watch a couple of films, as per Burns’ request. Burns was wearing a thick sweater, but he shivered in the room. Waylon had turned up the heat, and he creased his brow.

“Aren’t you hot in that?” he asked.  
Burns shook his head. “I’m rather cold.” Stiffly, he leaned into himself, against Waylon. “I felt very hot earlier.”  
Waylon felt a sense of dread. Burns’ eyes were half-lidded, his cheeks red and the rest of his face a pasty colour. His hands shook. He seemed worse off than earlier. “Oh, Monty…”

Burns crossed his legs, slouching, lacking energy. “And loathe as I am to say, if we don’t do anything…”  
“The photos…”

“We’ve been avoiding it, but what else is there to do?” Burns cast him a melancholy look. “We must burn them. Before it’s too late.”

Waylon had hoped, somehow, that they wouldn’t have to go through with it, in the end. How foolish he’d been. 

In the hall, he felt as if he were walking through quicksand, his legs heavy and his body sinking, but somehow he kept moving. Burns hung his head, walking slowly also, fingering his hair, holding it to his person, his hands shaking. His face was red and tired.

Alone in the library, they closed the doors. The photographs, the copy still on the floor, seemed to mock them. Burns picked up the original, tracing it with his finger, his hand still shaking. He sneered at the copy, snatching it off the ground. If only the copy hadn’t been there in the first place.

The warmth of the fire stifled him. He inhaled too quickly, then held his exhale, his heart afraid. This was happening.

A shadow cast behind Burns as he stood in front of the grate, Waylon behind. “ _No_ , Monty…” Waylon could hardly speak. “Don’t, you can’t…”

“I don’t want to lose my youth. It seems this is the only way to stop our suffering, however. I wish it weren’t.” Burns set the photos on the table, looking at Waylon, searching his face, his own expression chagrined and fearful. “In case… anything happens…” His hands went to Waylon’s side and under his arm. Waylon pulled him close and moved one hand to Burns’ back and the other around his neck, his fingers tangled in hair. Burns pressed his lips against Waylon’s cheek, then moved to his mouth. Waylon kissed him as if it were the last time either of them would get the chance to embrace the other. The worst part was he didn’t know if it weren’t just that.

Perhaps they would have embraced one another perpetually, if only they could. But if they were going to do anything about the photographs and their subsequent ailments, it had to be now, before their situation worsened further.

Burns took the photographs again, his eyes alight by the fire. They met Waylon’s, round, scared. Waylon nodded once and squeezed Burns’ hand _. I love you._

Burns nodded in return and faced the flames. From his hand, the photographs flew down, into the mouth of the fire. Consumed. Everything faded around him, darkness swirled in his vision… 

**Part II. Learning to Live (Again), or The Phoenix**

And then they were falling. 

Burns’ hand gripped his tightly, blurred colour racing by them as they fell through the chasm. Waylon couldn’t speak, couldn’t open his mouth, could barely see. He didn’t know when or if they would hit ground.

At last the floor. Waylon sat up immediately, his head spinning, and wondered what they’d just witnessed.

“W-Waylon…?” Burns lay nearby, but… his hair was grey again, his skin marred with age. “Waylon, I can’t lift myself from the floor…” He faltered, sighed.  
Brow creasing, Waylon went to his side and helped him stand up; Burns’ hands shook on Waylon’s arms, his expression was grave. “I’ve become as I was… that was the price of destroying the photographs, as we had thought.”

“I’m… I’m so sorry.”

Burns shook his head. “It isn’t your fault, we knew this would happen. I couldn’t have kept my youth forever. Still…” Burns stared at his hand, scarred and veiny, touched his hair. “I… I’ll miss everything, all that I was able to do, the way I felt…” He traced the deeper lines on his face, flinching. “And the photographs? Are they still there? Do check. I hope they aren’t…” 

“They’re…” Waylon bent over the fireplace. “They’re gone…” So that was it, then? Everything was just back to normal?

“They’re gone,” Burns repeated, hollow. He sighed. “At the least, we’re rid of the shadow-”

 _Not gone, not entirely_.   
Waylon froze. “Did you hear-” It sounded sort of like Burns, oddly…  
Burns nodded. “Yes.”

_He still exists, the shadow, that is._

“Well, then,” Burns said, “this was all for nought, if he’s still here to harm us- and I’m old again.” He glanced at Waylon. “And you, Waylon, how do you feel?”

“I…” Waylon closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. What did it matter what he felt, when Burns had suffered the most here?

 _This isn’t reality_ , continued the voice.

“What? Then- why do I still look this way?” Burns demanded, “change me back, if it’s false!”

_This is the dreamscape. He still has control. I’m not able to reach you here, yet. We’ve been separated. I’d help you more if I could._

“Who are you, then?” Burns asked.

 _I’m your spirit, Monty, from the original photograph._ So that’s why it sounded like Burns. _And I’m a part of you. But we must reconnect, to be whole again, in both physical body and in mind._

Burns’ eyes widened, his expression softened. “Oh, it’s _you_ …”

 _You’re being held, both of you, by him- you must expel him from existence, and leave the dreamscape. You don’t belong here._  
The room vanished and suddenly they were within the grey void from Waylon’s dream. Burns looked around them, frowning. “Where are we?”

“I… the dreamscape… I’ve seen this place before, where I met the mirror spirits …” Waylon narrowed his eyes towards the foggy horizon.

“Are they here, then?” Burns followed his gaze. 

The same transparent, monochrome figures appeared as if out of air, as if ghosts, Mirror-Burns in the lead. 

The real Burns glared at them, crossing his arms, self-conscious and defensive even in this dreamland. “So it’s you, who have been causing us such strife and rendered me this way again.”

“Perhaps you wouldn’t be in such a mess if you had listened to us,” said the Mirror-Waylon. “But you released us entirely, when you burned the photographs again.”

“But you’re wrong! We did nothing. _You_ tried to drive us apart!” Waylon shouted.

“You never should have been together in the first place- do you really think it’s a good idea? With what has happened to you, to the both of you? Do you think _he’ll_ stay with you?” Mirror-Waylon placed his hands on his hips, sneering. 

“Yes,” agreed Mirror-Burns, his voice eerily quiet, “you’re foolish, and we- I- tried to help you.” He glared at the real Burns.

“I-“ Waylon started.

“You’re both naïve as ever. We tried to help you,” Mirror-Waylon insisted, “He-”  
“ _Enough_!”

Waylon froze, as did the spirits, at Burns’ enunciation. Burns glowered at the spirits and continued, “You’ve done enough damage as it is! Leave us be.”

He turned to Waylon, his brow furrowed. “My dear Waylon, I love you. I’ve no intention to leave you, or any other nonsense these numbskull shadows spew.” He turned back to the spirits. “You foolish apparitions, I didn’t sacrifice my youth so we would be here, trapped- I did it for Waylon and myself, so we wouldn’t suffer any longer. Release my spirit from your hold and leave us alone!”

How were they supposed to expel Mirror-Burns, and by extension Mirror-Waylon, as Burns’ spirit had said?

Mirror-Burns stepped in front of his Waylon, crossing his arms. He was the shadow; Mirror-Waylon had manifested through him. 

Suddenly he stood close to Waylon, leering, as the real Burns had under the spirits’ influence. Waylon shivered. Burns’ eyes, lovely and blue, animated, alive in his mind, stood in contrast to the shadow’s stark and shallow grey eyes, contorted with ill will.

“Hello again, Waylon.”

­Something held him to the ground, as if a magnetic force; he was unable to stop looking at the strange emptiness and simultaneous avarice behind Mirror-Burns’ expression. In the back of his mind, he wondered what was going on, why the shadow was staring at him so intently.

“We will release you, if you so wish, as he does,” he said, every word piercing Waylon as if a needle jabbing, “but he will soon die, you know. He is old and close to his end. Stay here in the dreamscape. You will live forever, Waylon, with me, after I dispose of the little Waylon I created over there.” He gestured to the Mirror-Waylon. “I won’t need him any longer.”

His last words rang in Waylon’s head. “Wh-what?” He couldn’t think clearly if at all.

Mirror-Burns’ hand touched his arm and, suddenly, colours blossomed around them, and they were in an open meadow, like the one where he had met child Burns ages ago in a dream. But now they sat by a river, mountains in the distance, the sun streaming down. A picnic next to him held ripe fruit, sun-starched bottles of wine, bread, chocolates, flowers.

A hand over his. Waylon jumped, Burns, his youth restored, sat next to him, gazing at him. “Monty…? What happened? The mirrors…I don’t… Why are we here?”

Burns shook his head. “Nothing to worry over now, do not fret. We are fine, hm?”

“I… yes…” Waylon frowned. What could be wrong, he was here, Burns had regained his youth somehow… so why was he still wary? His recent memory was fuzzy, and made him feel numb, so he strayed from it. 

Burns’ other hand fell on his shoulder, compelling Waylon to regard him. His eyes… there was something wrong, _there was_ … but they were blue, not grey, so this was his Burns…

Waylon put his arm around Burns, titled his head to kiss him. Burns accepted immediately, prodding at Waylon’s lips.

_But-_

It was without the tenderness that only Burns could give, the soft exclamation, the warmth that was unique and wonderful and solely _Monty_. It was lust and heat without feeling or touch.

He stopped, pulled away from Burns, met his eyes once more, suddenly the air was cool and hostile. Blue flashed a cold grey.

“You…” Waylon closed his eyes. “You’re not…”

“I am the one you want,” Burns said, “we will live forever, here, how does that sound? I will love you. You can have anything you want, anytime. And we will be together.”

“Forever?”  
“Yes, my dear…” 

_But I don’t want that_ … Waylon bit his lip. _Not like this…_ _Not with him_ … “But…” He struggled to speak, as if a weight hung in his throat. “You aren’t… Monty. You’re… the mirror _… you aren’t real_ …”

Mirror-Burns’ countenance changed, his brow drawn, his eyes now entirely grey. “I’m as real as you are, Waylon. I may have come from the photograph but that does not matter now. I’m still Monty.” ­ He poured a glass of wine. “You had fun with that dream together, didn’t you? Deciding you were in charge, hm?” He raised an eyebrow, sipping from the red liquid.

Waylon squirmed, suddenly unable to move. “What did you think would happen? We knew it was a dream.”

“But you-” Mirror-Burns growled. “Damn Monty’s spirit, he aided you.” He scoffed. “He was not, obviously, able to invade my creations until your little joined dream adventure… that was not meant to happen. Your dreams should have stayed separate. You shouldn’t have been able to help Monty as you did.” 

“Why couldn’t you have just left us alone?” Even in the dreamscape Waylon felt tired.

“I oppose Monty by nature,” Mirror-Burns said, “because, as you know, I am but his spirit’s _shadow_.” He wrinkled his nose. “But…” He stroked Waylon’s hand, and Waylon wished he had the energy to even flinch. “I’ve no innate opposition towards you, and I desire you of my own volition.”

Waylon frowned. “So why have you been constantly hurting me, if that’s true?”

“Because you continue to be dazzled by _him,_ ” Mirror-Burns scolded, “and he has an expiration date. I don’t. I want you to stay with me forever, and you can. I can give you whatever you want. I have control of the dreamscape. You will give me the strength to defeat his spirit, and Monty will die, while you live.”

“Why would I ever agree to that?” Waylon glared at him. “I don’t love you, I don’t even like you.”  
“I am trying to help you!” The air cooled. Dark energy swirled around Mirror-Burns’ edges. “You’ll continue to suffer. You will be much happier here. HE can give you so little. You will be miserable and unfulfilled.”

“What about him, then, are you just going to- to send Monty back to the real world, and keep me here?” His heart ached at the thought, of Burns waking up, Waylon off in the dreamscape with Mirror-Burns, at the stress and grief he would feel- that they both would.

“What about him? Why would you do that to him? If- if you keep me here, I’ll be… dead in the real world…” His voice broke. _Monty_ … 

“Not to worry, I will send my little Waylon to inhabit your physical body, he’ll be able to sustain until your Burns dies, eventually…. And then they’ll both be gone, and we will be here, and you will be happy.”

“Why do you care if I’m happy or not? You never did before.”

“Of course I did, but I had to get you away from _him_.”

Waylon wrinkled his nose, disgusted. “And how could you do that to Monty? Leave him with that… thing, he’ll be miserable, I…” He shut his eyes as tears formed. “Please, you can’t… I’d rather be with him, in the real world, even if it is for a short time, than here with you forever.”  
Mirror-Burns raised an eyebrow. “Are you certain? Though he’s old and weak again? You are making a bad decision, dear.”  
Waylon’s fists clenched, able to take some control of his body again. “Don’t you _dare_ speak about him that way,” he growled, seething, “he is not weak. I-” Still tears formed in his eyes. “I love him, I want to be with him, I don’t care. Let me go.”

Mirror-Burns glowered, scoffed. “Very well, you’ve made your decision, apparently.” He slammed his hand onto the ground, and grey washed out the colour, dissolving the lush landscape and returning the Mirror-Burns to his monochrome state.

They were in the void again. Waylon blinked and looked around for Burns, the only other spot of colour, his heart pounding, terrified.

“….Waylon?”

Relief flooding him, Waylon turned towards Burns’ voice. “ _Monty_!” he exclaimed, tearfully.

Burns approached, his expression also of relief. “Where did you go _\- oh_ -”

Waylon wrapped him in an embrace, savouring the warmth, his hand behind Burns’ head against his hair. He leaned in, and Burns did the same. Burns’ lips touched his, overlapped, moved up, down. Burns’ skin soft against his, his touch lucid and real.

Waylon held him, and Burns rested against his body, sighed.

“Waylon,” he said, “you were gone for a long time. What happened…?”

“So you do love him.”

Waylon started at the voice of Mirror-Burns. He continued to hold Burns next to him, comforted by their closeness, but also afraid for them both. “Of course I do,” he told the shadow, who looked almost sorrowful. “I told you.”

“That’s a pity,” Mirror-Burns continued, waving his hand, “you can’t choose correctly. But…”

Waylon frowned at the apparent lack of Mirror-Waylon. “Where’s… the other me? Did you…”  
“I dissolved him, and the energy returned to me, yes,” Mirror-Burns said flippantly.

“Dissolved…?” Burns regarded his counterpart. “You _destroyed_ your Waylon?”  
“He was nothing to me, I made him. He was never anything. And you…” He glared, suddenly, at Burns, “why should _you_ get to be with him?” He pointed at Waylon, “He gave up eternity with me for- for- a blink of an eye with _you_.”

Burns narrowed his eyes, then looked up at Waylon, curious.

“He offered me eternity, yes,” Waylon said, “but why would I want to spend forever in this… place, no matter how nice he makes it look, with a… a _reflection_ that tries to harm us?” The entire premise was ridiculous. “I love _you_ , Monty,” he continued, smiling at Burns in his arms, “of course I’d rather be with you.”

Burns smiled, his cheeks red. “And I love you, my dear.”

“You two make me ill,” Mirror-Burns snarled, his form oddly more transparent now, “if you truly want to spend a few years together, and only that, go ahead.” He disappeared, and then so did too the void, everything.

The floor was soft against his head. The world spun around him. Here they were again, back from the dreamscape. Had they expelled Mirror-Burns? He wasn’t sure.  
Waylon sat up. The library again, as he had expected. Burns too lay on the floor. Waylon went to him, wondering if this set-up were another façade in the dreamscape, because it was very similar to what had already happened, but what would be the point of that?

“Monty?” He was pale, his skin cold. “Are you…” He refused to entertain the possibility that… _No_. Could Mirror-Burns have…

Burns’ eyes flickered open. “Monty, how do you feel?”  
“Unwell…” Burns groaned, “I expect we aren’t finished with the shadow, there’s no reason I ought to feel this ill, otherwise….”

Waylon swallowed, blinked. His hand felt Burns’ neck. The pulse was too slow. “What did he do to you…?” he muttered, angry. “We need to get you to a hospital.”

“Waylon…” Burns coughed.

“You can’t be suggesting we do nothing. How do you think I would feel if you- if you died now?” To think Burns had sacrificed his youth for them both, and now he was much worse off… and all thanks to the damned Mirror-Burns. What had happened to the spirit, he didn’t know, and it wasn’t his priority.

Burns gazed up at him, something unusually melancholy in his expression. But he didn’t seem to have the strength to speak anymore. He only nodded, and then closed his eyes again. Waylon fished his phone out to call the emergency line, supporting Burns with one arm. He was so fragile. And Waylon would hold onto him tightly.

The hospital room was annoyingly sterile and quiet, with intermittent machine noise that only increased Waylon’s anxiety. He looked from Burns to the monitor, and clenched and unclenched his hand, the other on Burns. The doctors hadn’t been helpful. Burns’ much older age was not questioned, which was good, but they couldn’t find anything specifically wrong with him. They only concluded he did need medical attention. The electrolytes they had hooked him up to seemed to be of minimal help.  
Waylon didn’t want to imagine his life without Burns. After what they had been through, after how far they had come together, he was not ready to let that go.

His days would be overshadowed by Burns’ absence. And the longing, the grievous cavity in his heart and soul, he thought, would last for all his life. There would be no solace for him. He would be without purpose, existing painfully.

“Monty…” he whispered, caressing Burns’ face, unable to say anything else.

“I’m sorry, Waylon.” Every word Burns spoke only sent Waylon deeper into a depressed state.

“No, don’t… don’t… it’s not your fault…” There had to be some other thing they could do. But there was nothing. The photographs were gone. And soon Burns might be too.

Waylon sank into the armchair by the bed, tears springing to his eyes, but he made no sound. He sat still and watched Burns. Life was brief, fleeting, even if it had seemed eternal and full. He would be much less than whole.

And Burns- he had been so happy, and he’d changed light-years from who he had been. Now his ability to live his life for the better would be snuffed out, revoking the second chance he should have had.

“I think I might die,” Burns whispered suddenly, jolting Waylon up in renewed despair and desperation. “I can’t… I am afraid…”

“Monty, please,” Waylon begged, out of the chair and shaking beside the hospital bed, nearly falling. He gripped the siderails of the bed. “This can’t be… please, I- I don’t want you to go.” _Don’t leave me_.  
He sniffed, swallowed, almost choking, closing his eyes, and staring weakly at the monitor. Heartbeat slow.

“I… I don’t want to either… Waylon….”

A cry escaped from his throat. Waylon gasped, not able to catch his breath, shuddering.

“I’m sorry, Monty,” he murmured, “I’m so sorry…” His voice faltered, rose, and turned into another, ugly, cry.

Now the air was warm. Waylon, even in his state of misery, was lucid enough to be newly confused. A hand closed on his shoulder, fingers long and thin, heat spreading through his body. Those fingers only belonged to one person. But…

“M-Monty?” he dared. He reached, trembling, to grasp the hand on his shoulder, and at once a calm washed over him. He turned his head. “It’s… it’s…” He couldn’t understand how Burns was there, when he lay dying in the bed at the same time. And it wasn’t Mirror-Burns, though he wore a similar outfit. He seemed to radiate and absorb light, sun laden but also glowing, his brown hair almost bronze.

Burns gripped Waylon’s hand over his and pulled him to his feet, then embraced him tightly. Waylon felt much lighter, almost euphoric, and safe, in his arms.  
Waylon buried his face in Burns’ hair. “Monty…”

“I’m here,” Burns said, his voice soft, “you’ll both be alright.”  
Waylon pulled back, confused. “What do you mean…?”

Burns smiled. “I am Monty’s spirit.”  


“Oh… how did you… is the other… is he gone, now? The shadow? You were able to escape?”

“I was able to overcome his barriers after you weakened him by refusing him, yes,” the spirit said, “I expelled him, as he’s only my copy and shadow. However, his lingering energy holds you both hostage. That energy is what created this scenario, and Monty is suffering. You’re still, clearly, in the dreamscape-”

“R-right…”

“I’ve come to restore Monty. I’ll open a doorway back to the physical world for you, so you can wake- but I mustn’t waste any more time…” 

He hurried over to Burns’ side, Waylon following. Burns stared up at him, his eyes bright in understanding. The spirit offered his hand to Burns. Waylon watched in fascination and anxiety.

Burns reached out, shaking, and took the spirit’s hand, clasping it. A new light, almost blinding Waylon, making him step back, enveloped them both. The light grew and swallowed whole the hospital room; Waylon shut his eyes, waiting for it to subside.

When the light faded, the hospital was gone, they were in a sparse room containing a mirror and a door.

Only one other figure stood in the room; Burns, his eyes closed, his hair long and brown, his skin unmarred. He blinked, looked at Waylon, then down at himself, smiling as he took in his reinstated appearance. He approached the mirror, and looked at himself in disbelief.

“I… I am myself again,” he whispered, grinning widely, “I’m _me_.” He touched his hair, pulling it over his shoulder, laughing, giving no indication he was experiencing any headaches. He turned away from the mirror, jubilant, towards Waylon. It was as if they were reliving that first morning of the change, as if Burns were reliving his own joy and incredulity, which, Waylon supposed, he was.  
At once, Burns’ head pressed against his chest, a spot of shining copper. There was no sign of the place where Waylon had unwillingly cut off a strand. His arms around Waylon, Burns lifted his head, his eyes vibrant and smile contagious. “Waylon, I am _free,_ we’re free.” 

A wave of catharsis shocked Waylon as he took in Burns’ words. It was over, Mirror-Burns was gone… “Monty…” Waylon breathed, “you… it worked…? Your spirit’s with you again?”

Burns nodded, smiling still. “Yes, and it- he’s a part of me, permanently. I was… reborn, perhaps… I can never go back to how I was _, because that part of me is now non-existent_.” He sighed, and grasped Waylon’s hands. “I love you. Now let’s leave here and return to our lives.”

Burns loved him, and he had always loved Burns. Waylon took his hand, heat spreading from his fingertips to his chest. 

They stood in front of the door. Waylon reached out and turned the handle. It opened to nothing but an endless expanse of white light.

“Let’s go,” Burns said, “the dreamscape is fading- can you feel it?”

He could, he was weightless, somehow they were going through the blinding light, everything became dim, nothing, and a rush, they fell in reverse, flying-

Waylon blinked as the interior of Burns’ library focused. He, fortunately, was not laying on the floor again, but was propped up against a table, still sat on the floor. Slowly, he stood. Burns lay on the long sofa, still unconscious.

“Monty-?”

Burns gasped, his eyes shot open. “Waylon.” He grinned, stood up, embraced him, Waylon held him as close as he could, all the while reminding himself that this was the real, physical world again, they were alright, they were free of Mirror-Burns. That they could live.

Burns grasped him, and they fell back onto the sofa, his rapid heartbeat atop Waylon’s. Waylon breathed in his scent, wanting to never let him go. Next to his ear was a barely audible sigh.

“Oh…I feared, at a point, we wouldn’t wake,” Burns confessed. “I was afraid I’d die, there…. When I joined with my spirit again, there was a sensation that I can’t describe- I felt only euphoric… I experienced such strong bliss; it transformed me, becoming a permanent fixture within me, I can never return to…” He sighed. “Of course, I’ve little qualms about that…”

“I’m glad you’re happy,” Waylon said softly, “you deserve to be.”

“I wouldn’t be if you weren’t here with me. You’ve been through it all, by my side, always. You… you bring something out in me, that I like, and I feel… content.” Burns shifted over him.

Waylon swallowed, remembering, then, how close he had come to losing Burns, seemingly. “They… in the dreamscape, you were _dying_. I…” Seized with longing, he reached and pulled Burns against him.

“…Waylon?” Burns’ voice was low.

“You were dying,” Waylon repeated, loosening his grip, his chin resting on Burns’ shoulder, next to his hair. “I thought… it was too real. When we were at the hospital-” He swallowed. “I really thought it was happening. I didn’t- I don’t want anything to happen to you.” He blinked again, a tear falling from his eye.

Burns didn’t respond immediately, only stroked Waylon’s hair with his fingers. “I know, I thought it was real, as well, but now I’m here, and you are,” he said then, “I don’t intend to leave you. I…” He sighed. “Waylon, look at me.”

He sat back against the sofa, regarding Burns, who clasped Waylon’s hand. “I mean to say that I… I intend to be with you, always.”

Waylon raised his eyebrows. “You… are you-?” He couldn’t be going there, could he? Waylon hadn’t calmed himself since he’d woken. There’d been no chance, and didn’t seem to be now.

“Do you, also, intend the same to me?”

“Of- of course, anything.” He stumbled over the words, then exhaled and said, “I never want to be with anyone else.”

Burns smiled. “Excellent. I’d thought so…”  
Waylon felt something slide onto his finger, on his left hand. Slowly, he drew his eyes down to the gold and silver band, frozen for a time, before lifting his gaze to Burns, not aware of anything else in the world. Burns’ face, pink, gazed in return, waiting for judgement.

“I…” Waylon had to force himself to relax even a small bit. “It’s… Is it…?”  


“I suppose it could be an engagement ring, yes…” Burns laughed. “But we aren’t at that point- I’ve not felt we’ve been in this relationship for long enough yet… and yes, we’ve been close friends for years- still, we oughtn’t rush so. Do you agree…?”

“Yes, I understand.”  
“You don’t have to wear it about, but I want you to have it all the same.”

Burns slid something out of his pocket; a matching ring, which he slid onto his own finger, showing it to Waylon. “I’ve my own, too.”

Waylon wiped his eyes, unable to express verbally the cavalcade of emotions that overwhelmed him.

“Why are you crying?” Burns asked, “Aren’t you happy? Do you not like the ring?”

Waylon laughed. “Of course I am. More than.” He opened his arms, just a vague gesture, and Burns fell onto him, his ring cool against Waylon’s neck.

“I could tell you that I love you over and over,” Waylon murmured into Burns’ hair, “and it still wouldn’t be enough to tell you how much that’s true. But I love you.”

“And I love you. Mm…” Burns placed his lips on Waylon’s cheek, pressed there for a moment, tilted his head.

The day ahead of them lit the room in layered, early afternoon sun. Burns looked sideways, his brow creased in thought. “I feel like dancing,” he said, “what do you think, my dear?”

Waylon nodded. “Yes, I’d love to.”  


Burns laughed, ran Waylon’s cheek with his hand, and pulled him into the nearby lounge. Satisfied with the amount of space they had to move about, he went over to the room’s Victrola. He slid a record out of its case, placed it onto the player’s turntable, and moved the needle atop it, rocking on his heels for some seconds as the crackling turned to life. He spun back around and held his hand out to Waylon. “Could I have this dance?”

Waylon took the offered hand, joined with Burns, and as their momentum grew, Waylon twirled him; Burns’ body bathed in light twisted and dipped, Waylon’s hand supporting him from beneath and above, to the side. Hands still together, they swung outward, and returned to their close beginning, Burns’ face flushed. Their movements were complementary, balancing their individual flourishes as the instrumentation swelled. They came apart and together again, feet crossing and jumping, swinging to the rising and falling inclinations of the music across the floor. 

“I never thought I’d be able to dance that way again,” Burns admitted, “of course I could dance before, but with the added endurance and stamina I possess in this form, it’s wonderful…”

The next song on the record had a much slower tempo, allowing them to relax. They swayed, feet making small motions. Burns lifted his head to Waylon’s face, and standing on his toes, kissed him.  
“I feel more alive than I ever have,” he said, and sighed happily, standing on his feet flat again.

“Monty?”  
“Yes?”

“I love you.” What else could he say, though it was something Burns was well aware of? He felt it so deeply, now, and revelled in the gesture.

Burns leaned up and stroked his face. “I know. And I love you.” Waylon would never tire of hearing him say that, or of telling Burns the same.

The early evening sun crept through the window, dressing the solarium with its lingering rays, and the sprawling grounds before them, beyond the glass, flowed with dappled light. Burns rested against Waylon, quiet, his chest rising and falling, expression almost serene. Waylon glanced at him, and he stretched, his re-braided hair falling over his shoulder.

“Let’s go out there,” he said then, “into the gardens- perhaps we could take a walk.” They stood from the sofa, loosely wrapping their hands together on their way. By the door, Waylon glanced in a mirror on the wall. He felt no headache.

Waylon turned back to Burns, alight, as they stepped outside onto the veranda, towards the sky and the world and their life ahead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read the story, I hope you enjoyed it, and more content is on the way!


	18. Bonus: Monty's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two scenes from Monty's POV, as well as his nightmare in the beginning of chapter 16.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the bonus section!

From Part Two

Monty felt oddly blissful in his semi-consciousness, he couldn’t explain it. Smithers was muttering about something, he didn’t know what, and he didn’t care. The curtains were pulled open, the rings sliding along the bar, he knew the sound well.

Even with his eyes closed, the sun broke through and disturbed him.

“Sir, it’s… morning.” _Clearly._

Monty wrenched open his eyes, immediately squinting. “It’s too bright.”  
“Sorry, sir.” The curtains went again, and the glare lessened. He could open his eyes properly. Smithers stood in front of the partially open window. And again, something was different.

“I feel odd, Smithers.” As he became acclimated, the sense grew stronger.

Smithers shifted. “Well, sir…”

Monty turned his head away from the window. A few locks of brown hair, too long and the wrong shade to be Smithers’ (why would his hair be on Monty’s pillow, anyhow?), fell next to him, over his shoulder, as he turned. _What…_ He no longer felt tired. “Why, I haven’t seen anything like this in forty-odd…” Was it really his hair?

Anxious, Monty sat himself up in bed and threw his covers off, remarking on the strength he’d possessed to do so. But then…

He lifted his arm, the skin unmarred, and turned it, flexing his hand, and then the other. He grasped the hair over his shoulder between his fingers, reaching up further, only feeling more hair. Perhaps he was still dreaming. Otherwise, he had somehow aged backwards.  
“Smithers,” he said, remembering his assistant was still there, “look at me, it is as if I am young!” _A mirror, that would be useful_ …

Monty slid off the bed, again noticing the ease, agility, with which he could move, and rushed to his bathroom. His hands on the counter, he leaned forward, incredulous. He blinked, and his reflection did the same. He reached his hand to the glass. A face free of the lines of old age; long, brown hair.

His heart pounded, and so too did his head for some reason. But this was what he had wanted, the other night, as he’d told Smithers… and it had come to pass. He was young again.

“I do suppose my wish has been granted, eh?” Monty grinned at himself, still half-convinced he was dreaming. Back in his bedroom, Smithers stared at him. Monty stood up, his posture once again straight and absent of any hunch, and returned to his bed, catching a glimpse of himself as he went, as well as another slight headache.

“Your… your wish?” Smithers was asking. Monty sat on the edge of the bed, facing him. “Yes! Don’t you recall our conversation last night?”  
“I… of course, but I didn’t think… I didn’t think anything would happen,” Smithers said. “That picture you threw in the fire- you look just like that…”

“Perhaps. Though I don’t believe my throwing it in the fire was the sole reason this happened, if there is any discernible reason at all.”

“If there is any reason,” Smithers repeated. There had to be some reason, unless his youth had been acquired through vague universal means. “What should we do now?”

_Everything, I must go out and partake in physical activities, oh, I haven’t been able to do that as I’d want in so long_ … “Oh, there are so many things…”

From Part Twelve

The image of her plagued his mind. Why had she come to the same restaurant as they? Monty exhaled, relieved, as he drank in the night air outside, Waylon beside him.

“I’ve no desire to interact with such a woman ever again,” he said, shaking his head.  
“Me neither,” Waylon agreed, “Do you think she saw us?”  
“I… I don’t know.” Shivering suddenly, Monty took his hand, anchoring himself. “…Thank you, Waylon.”

“For what?”

“For…” Monty drew closer to him. “For what we have now. I… find it fulfilling, it is a relief after… what occurred with _her_.” He gestured to the restaurant with his other hand.  
“I feel the same way,” Waylon said quietly.

Monty swallowed. _I might love you, Waylon. I-_  
Before he could think to muster any courage to say such, he was disquieted suddenly.

“ _Monty_.”

He froze. No, no, not now, I cannot- With trepidation, he peered behind. Waylon held onto his hand, Monty wrapped his fingers around Waylon’s. He glared, then, at Eloise, who stood next to the man with whom she’d been inside.  
“I knew that was you.” _How dare she address me like that!_

“ _Ms Fleming_ ,” Monty ground, “What do you want?”

“What are _you_ doing here?”

“Does it matter to you so? As I recall, you and I have parted ways, and I have no interest in speaking to you,” he shot back.

Smithers’ hand tugged at his. “Let’s go, it’s not worth your time.”

Eloise shifted her head. “So you’re dating _him_ now?”

Monty glowered at her. “I… I am, yes,” he announced, “do you take issue with that?” He shook his head, not having realised how happy he was to be away from her all this time. “Yes, let us leave,” he murmured to Smithers, taking his flight instinct and pulling Smithers away from her, staring ahead, because he couldn’t look back.

Part Sixteen dream

Part One

_What was the issue, why did he care how long or short his hair was? If it would make Eloise happy, it was a small price to pay… Monty shook his head. But he did care. He loved having his hair, having so much of it, rather than the thinner, grey hair he’d had before the change._

_But it was too late._

_“I… I have an appointment,” he mumbled to the person at the salon._

_“He has an appointment,” Eloise repeated, touching his arm. He flinched._

_Monty nodded minutely, his hands trembling, his stomach upset. But he was Montgomery Burns, and it was only a haircut. He was being ridiculous._

_Still, he resisted his instinct to run, as the barber apprehended him, an oblivious man, not aware of what was inside Monty’s head._

_His anxiety worsened as the barber first washed his hair, and delayed the actual cutting. He stayed quiet and closed his eyes when he could, trying to not think of anything, to shut out the world._

_Then the chair._

_“So what are we looking at here?” the barber asked, “what would you like?”_

_To leave, and never come back. But his thoughts couldn’t turn into words._

_“He’s a bit shy,” Eloise put in, and Monty clenched his fists, he was not shy. He was afraid and hoped, somehow, that he was dreaming, despite the lucidity of the nightmare surrounding him. Eloise continued, “He wants it cut off, except for the fringe.”_

_No, no. He didn’t want this, he wanted to run, he didn’t want to lose his hair._

_In the mirror, the barber glanced at him. “Is that what you want, sir?”_

_The barber meant well, and Monty opened his mouth to defy Eloise’s wishes- but how could he do that to her- but what did it matter, what she felt about his hair?_

_No, no, I don’t want it, I don’t- tell him no._

_Instead, he croaked, against every wish he had, “Er, yes.” And closed his eyes as the barber nodded and set to work, separating his hair with clips. He wished he could disappear, but all he could do was wait for it to be over. And how could he relax now- as his hair was being actively taken away._

_His body shook, but he tried to hide it under the cape he’d been draped with. He was cold. There were too many noises around him. And the worst of the noises were close to his ears, the closing of scissors over strands, the snipping, the minute sound of contact with the floor. The increasing absence of that comfortable, familiar weight behind his neck, as his chest pounded and fell._

_If he had to open his eyes, it was to stare at his lap, trying to block his periphery, to conceal his turmoil. What was the point of this? Why was he letting Eloise take away his hair… what had he done? If only… if Smithers were there… Smithers would take him away from Eloise, would love him for who he was, would call him beautiful and kiss him gently. Where was he?_

_But Smithers wouldn’t come. He was on his own._

_Suddenly, he was newly cold, as the barber removed the cape. He was done. Monty’s stomach dropped._

_“What do you think, sir?”_

_He had to look now. Monty squeezed his hands against themselves, forcing himself not to react, but he couldn’t keep back the small gasp. What he saw was somehow worse than any mirror-caused headache he could have had. He hoped again that this was a dream, but how could a dream feel this real, so raw and horrifying? Monty’s chin quavered._

_This was a mistake, he thought, touching his face, transfixed with revulsion and alarm._

_“Oh,” came Eloise’s shrill cry, “you look wonderful…”_

_His hair was gone. Monty moved his hand from his face to the back of his neck, touching where it used to be, where now short locks ended abruptly between the bottom of his ears._

_I look dreadful._

_“Come on, let’s go home,” Eloise continued, taking his hand, and somehow he stood up from the chair, and then he held his breath. His hair, in a terrible heap on the floor, about to be swept away and deposited in the trash. He wanted to cry. But he couldn’t. Eloise’s touch seemed to deplete his energy, as she led him away, and then everything faded in his vision…_

Part two

_Gasping, Monty stared, frowning when Waylon wasn’t asleep next to him; he was in his own bedroom, but something was different. It was morning. He heaved himself out of bed._

_I hope this is another dream, he thought, bringing one hand behind his neck, flinching at the emptiness he touched, and at the ring on his other hand. Terrified, he glanced in the mirror. His hair was as gone had been after the barber’s. A small cry escaped his throat._

_The sharper contours slicing against his skin made his face gaunt, and his eyes sat dimmed. He dropped his hand and stared at the other one, the ring like a tightening vice around his finger. No longer able to look at himself, at a person he didn’t recognise, he pulled away._

_His heart clawed its way into his throat, fluttering violently, intensifying as he crept around the room, now no longer only his, personal articles of another person, and not Waylon. Glass bottles of perfume on his counter. Dresses and skirts in his closet. Hair products._

_Monty swallowed, collapsed onto his bed, trembling. No, no, it couldn’t be… but the ring, his hair, everything in the room that didn’t belong to him…_

_Eloise. He was married to Eloise. How had this happened?_

_“ Waylon,” he whispered, choking. If Eloise were his… wife, surely she didn’t let him see Smithers anymore… _

_Monty took his head in his hands, wishing the world around him would disappear. Wishing he would._

_Startling his grief, the door opened. “Monty.”_

_His grief transformed into anger, and Monty flung his body back up, ready to tell Eloise off, but something pushed him down into himself. Words forced out of his mouth. “Yes, dear?” No!_

_“Come down and eat breakfast.”_

_Monty stood, followed Eloise downstairs, though he wasn’t hungry at all. He wanted to vomit. But his feet kept moving, into the dining room, where he sat in front of a plate, Eloise taking a place next to him, her eyes on him as he picked up a fork and knife and carved his toast and eggs. He had also been presented with milk, fruit, and avocado. None of it had any taste, but he pushed it down into his stomach, for what seemed an hour. But his plate was not empty still, he’d only eaten one piece of toast, the eggs, and a few strawberries, a sip of milk._

_“You have to eat more than that.”_

_“I… I’m not hungry,” he managed, hoping he could leave it at that._

_Eloise lifted one eyebrow. “You say that every day. I’m only trying to help you.”  
How can you… the gall. Monty shook his head. There was no way he could have any appetite sat next to her. But as if he were possessed, his hands retook the fork and knife, fed him more bland food, even as his nausea climbed, until he’d eaten almost everything. Eloise, pleased with his intake, kissed him, as he cringed. He felt ill. _

_It must have been a weekend, or else he would have been at the plant by now, judging by the late morning hour, unless… the dream he’d had, a while ago, what seemed like a lifetime ago… in that, he’d… sold it, hadn’t he._

_“What’s today?” he asked, straining not to let the shaking flood his voice._

_“Tuesday.” Eloise had donned glasses and was typing on a computer. She glanced at him. “Why?”_

_“The… my plant…” My plant, it’s gone.  
Eloise put her hand under her chin. “What about it?”_

_“Nothing. I.. was thinking.”_

_“You don’t want it back now, do you?”_

_Of course I do, you dimwit. “N-no….” Curse my tongue._

_Eloise’s hand curled on his shoulder. Monty stared at it, his head drooping. I don’t feel like myself anymore, he thought, suddenly. I don’t like what I’ve become. Waylon, please…_

_As if Smithers would suddenly appear._

_  
_ “…Monty!”

His eyes were wet. The ceiling was dark ahead of him. Without turning his head he glanced to the voice. _Smithers,_ his hand caressing Monty’s shoulder. Without hesitating, Monty threw himself against Smithers, hating how he shook. He drew his body to Smithers’, closing his eyes, leaning his head to Smithers’ chest _. It hadn’t been real_. A shudder enveloped him as a hand ran through his hair, tumbling past his shoulders once more. Monty sighed, relishing the feeling.

“What happened?” Smithers murmured after a few minutes, still stroking his hair.

Monty coughed. “The dream I had,” he began, “the one with… Eloise, do you recall?”

“The… the one you told me about a while ago? Where it was you if you’d stayed with her…?”

“Precisely.” Monty buried himself as best he could, blocking out all the world but him and Smithers. “I’ve now had similar dream, but… this was worse. In the first, I was an observer to myself, to him, I was on the outside. I was still me.” He shivered, though he was wrapped in warmth. “In the second, this dream, I… I _was_ him.” He cleared his throat. “It was terribly lucid, too.” Until he’d woken, he was almost convinced it had been real.

“Oh, Monty…” Waylon’s grip around him tightened. “You’re alright, now.”

“I.. I was trapped, I thought it was real… I despise who I would’ve become with her.” Eloise’s face, the barber, the ring, flashed in his head. “I wasn’t myself anymore. I couldn’t look at myself, because I… I didn’t feel confident or… pleased with my appearance, after she… she made me get my hair cut. I… I wished for you to come, to help me, but I was alone…” He swallowed, his lip trembling slightly, almost able to still hear the scissors. “And then, I spent much time in this house, trying to distract myself with maudlin entertainment, when she wasn’t there. I stopped eating, and she took to the task of monitoring my meals.” And, on top of that… “I… I even had sold the plant-” 

“ _What_?” Smithers seemed just as disheartened as he had felt.

“Yes,” he whispered, “my plant, too. I gave myself up to her will, and lived unhappily.” He lifted his head, his chin brushing Smithers’ cotton shirt. “Thank you, for making sure I didn’t tread that path.” He remembered all they had gone through before, with the real Eloise, and he hated how much he’d fallen for her, had become infatuated with her, then. And if Smithers hadn’t been there… “I… I hated my life, there, in the dream. And it could have been my real life…” It had come too close to being reality. Much too close.

“I didn’t want to lose you to her,” Smithers said, “I knew she wasn’t good for you. For anyone.”

“No. She wasn’t.” Monty yawned, relaxed his body, settled himself under Smithers’ chin. “Hold me until the morning,” he said, blinking, closing his eyes again, “I like being here.”

He could have sworn Smithers spoke, but he fell asleep too quickly to notice anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again THANK YOU for reading New Reflections!! I appreciate it a lot. And I am drafting out the sequel currently.


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